The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister
by S. Faith
Summary: An account of the time period covered by both books, Bridget Jones' Diary and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (UK book editions). 18 Chapters and an Epilogue.
1. Chapter 1: 1 Sept - 5 Jan

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary: The other side of the coin: what if we knew what Mark was thinking? An account of the time period covered by both books, _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_ (UK editions).

Disclaimer: Really, truly, _honestly_ is not mine.

Notes: Title inspired by another Fielding: Henry, author of _The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling_.

This site does not accept the strikethrough tag, so there may be some bits that are nonsensical. Go read it on my site instead via LJ. Grumble.

* * *

**Chapter 1: 1 Sept – 5 Jan **

Thurs, 1 Sept

Let's try this, since nothing else has worked.

Now that it's open, though, I find I don't know what to say.

Fri, 2 Sept

I'm supposed to use this to help gain control over the stress in my life. I have to find a solution, given that I'm only sleeping about two hours a night, there's no physical reason to be found for this insomnia, and the medication the doctor initially prescribed for me cast a veil of fog over my days. I need to stay sharp. Not that the lack of sleep is keeping me any sharper.

Going to visit my parents in Huntingdon. I have only been back about a month. I hadn't seen my parents since before I moved to America, so I've been to see them twice since being back. At the risk of sounding uncouth, they aren't getting any younger. So I'm making up for lost time.

Sat, 3 Sept

Last night, slept two hours, woke, slept another two. Slight progress.

A most perplexing day. Was not expecting garden party on my agenda for the day, though my mother insists she mentioned it. (It's possible she did so whilst I was groggy.) Many of my mother's friends were there—some had brought their daughters; I did not ask why—and she seemed very pleased to introduce me to them all. I felt a little put on the spot listening to my mother talk about me, explain where I've been and that I'd just returned. Even though I know she's proud of me, and I'm pleased to have made her proud, it all felt a bit like bragging.

One of the ladies present, Mrs Husbands-Bosworth, talked my ear off a bit; her daughter was staying with her to help her after a medical procedure about which I _prayed_ they would not go into more excruciating detail than they already had. She was also not very subtle in letting me know that her daughter was unmarried, and the daughter—Pauline, I think—seemed very eager to reaffirm this. I was of course polite, but it was discomfiting.

I was also introduced to Mrs Jones, who had come over from Grafton Underwood for the afternoon; my mother reminded me though that it was more of a reintroduction, because we apparently went to visit the Joneses often when they lived in Buckingham. I did remember this, and it prompted a recollection of a daughter seven or eight years younger than myself, whom I'd been charged to mind in the garden on occasion during those visits.

"Your daughter, Bridget?" I asked suddenly, feeling the need to engage a little more; I could just hear my mother, at the end of the day, chastising me for keeping to myself too much. "She's well?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs Jones, her eyes lighting up in a way I couldn't quite define. "Thank you for asking. We're hoping she comes to the New Years Turkey Curry Buffet. Your mother says _you'll_ be coming."

I nodded. I vaguely remembered agreeing to something on New Years since I had already planned to be staying with my parents for the holidays, but it made me wonder if it was normal to plan an event like this one more than four months in advance.

I excused myself to get another glass of wine and decided to have a stroll in the garden to enjoy the pleasant weather and get away from the chatter. I could still hear the conversation—the garden is not that large, after all—but the sound it of had been dulled enough to my satisfaction.

I was startled from my thoughts by the sound of my name. I turned and found Pauline Husbands-Bosworth standing there. "It gets a bit much," she said. I smiled politely. "You're living in London, are you?"

"Yes," I said.

"So," she said. "You're back from America?" She knew from the introduction that I was, so I waited to hear what was to follow. "How nice it must be for you to be back and so near to your mum and dad." She laughed almost nervously. "Not as near as me, obviously. At least for now."

"Your visit here drawing to a close?" I asked.

She nodded. "My mum's obviously recovered, so I'll be back in London soon, too." She smiled brightly. "I'd _love_ to hear more about your successes in America, but mum and I are leaving the party. Maybe once we're both back in London… here's my number."

She handed me a card, which I mutely accepted; I was too surprised by the sudden change in conversation to respond. We had gone from casual small talk to a full-bore pass in seconds flat.

"Oh, there you are, Pauline!" It was her mother, who looked very pleased indeed. "So glad to see you two getting on so well. Mark, _lovely_ to see you're back home."

The Husbands-Bosworth ladies' departure seemed to spark an exodus and within twenty minutes everyone had cleared out. My mother broached the new-born subject of Pauline's interest in me as we cleared away the empty glasses and plates.

"What did you think of Pauline?" she asked as she filled a tray (and I filled another). The light yet cautious tone of her voice was odd. "Did you like her?"

I almost said that I didn't know her well enough to like her or not like her, but I thought about what she'd said; the focus of her words had been only on my successes. "Not particularly."

"Oh, good."

As I said, perplexing—I would have sworn she'd wanted me to like Pauline, but I'm equally glad she didn't press the matter.

The rest of the day was uneventful. We spoke a little about their visit to London oncoming in a fortnight; I am treating them to a weekend in the city for their thirty-ninth wedding anniversary during which we'll have dinner at least once. At this rate it'll have to be at the hotel since I don't yet have a house. Hope the estate agent will have found one soon that meets my needs.

Sun, 4 Sept

Back in London. Five hours solid sleep last night. Maybe there's something to writing things down.

Have just had dinner; time to prepare for work.

House in Mayfair the agent wants me to look at tomorrow. Not hopeful.

Mon, 5 Sept

Two steps forward, one back. Barely an hour last night.

Doctor thinks the insomnia is related to the nature of my work; my mother believes it's because I work too much. She tells me often that I need to relax more.

To no one's surprise, I did not care for the house. Estate agent is doing her best, but the selection available hasn't been what I'm looking for.

Weds, 7 Sept

Two very long days in chambers, working on a court case. Feel as if I am running on an empty petrol tank. Chamomile tea last night helped a little; shall try again tonight.

Thurs, 8 Sept

Had a surprise this evening. While I was eating my dinner and catching up with a recording of—it pains me to say this—last weekend's _Blind Date_, my telephone rang. I did not pick up, as I did not want my dinner to go cold. The answerphone engaged; it was Pauline. She had looked up my number, and wanted to see about meeting to chat. Her message was fairly blatant, despite the attempt at a coquettish giggle. A sample: "Maybe dinner somewhere nice—not like you can't afford it!—so we can get to know each other a little better."

I am not looking to get to know anyone better. Not Pauline, after a crass message like that. Certainly do not need another Amanda.

Weds, 14 Sept

Went to drinks party (as is often required in professional circles). I was, to my surprise, chatted up rather extensively by a woman called Janine who, as it turns out, is the daughter of another of my mother's friends. She was very keen to tell me this, as if this fact alone would instantly cause us to bond. I did not wish to be rude but being direct seemed to be the only way to respond, particularly when she enquired as to the make and model of my vehicle. She reeked not only of desperation but of cloying perfume, and her makeup appeared to have been applied with a trowel.

Given the previous encounter with Pauline, I have a very strong suspicion that this is not a coincidental happening. I shall have to ask my mother about this apparent onslaught.

Sleep improving marginally. Still no more than five hours a night. I suppose I should be grateful for small improvements.

Sat, 17 Sept

Dinner out with parents. Treated them to Le Pont de la Tour. Most of the evening was uneventful (which I tend to prefer), until a moment of enlightenment when I brought up the encounter with Janine so hot on the heels of Pauline.

"Mark," she said. "There's more to life than work."

Of course, I knew that, and I said so.

"But you must be so lonely," she went on. "You can't have much of a personal life all on your own."

My father piped in: "It wouldn't hurt to take out a girl once in a while."

I understood at last. They thought the ultimate source of my stress was not simply that I worked too much, but that I didn't have someone with whom to spend personal time so I chose to work instead. I had to ask her exactly what she'd said or done to send these women after me.

"I only told my friends how proud I was of you, your achievements and your success," she said. "And yes, I might have mentioned you were on your own. But I did not in fact tell them to point their daughters towards you, wind them up and let them go."

I felt terrible for accusing her of scheming in such a way, and I apologised. She accepted and the subject changed.

I couldn't stop thinking, though, about how wrong they were about my personal life. If they think I'm mourning the loss of an unfaithful wife, they are mistaken; divorcing her was no loss. No; if anything, I am filled with self-reproach at my own error in judgment.

Mon, 3 Oct

Extraordinarily overwhelmed with work. Have been invited by Giles to participate in the chambers' five-a-side games, but have not been able to participate since he asked. I'm lucky if I'm able to make it to fall into bed, though lack of physical activity is affecting my already poor ability to sleep.

Have decided to narrow focus to Holland Park, for house.

Sat, 22 Oct

Still very busy.

Was finally able to make it to a game. Sore all over, in a good way. Giles asked if I played squash. I told him I did. Obviously I could use a little more physical activity.

Sun, 23 Oct

Last night, six hours sleep.

I have neglected keeping up in this journal regarding the on-going saga of the daughters of Cambridgeshire and environs. Since that first call, Pauline called several more times whilst I was out. I caught one such call just as I was leaving for court and made it very clear that her calls were not welcome. Janine I have not heard from again, which is a blessing, I suppose.

Another point of interest. I am no longer the most recently joined barrister in chambers. We have acquired a family law barrister by the name of Natasha Glenville. She is tall—almost as tall as I am in her heeled shoes—and very thin. Dark eyes; short dark hair. She dresses impeccably in the same sort of defeminising suits that most of the professional women I know wear. She seems whip-smart and we've had a couple of very intense legal discussions. She is very self-assured and direct.

Thurs, 3 Nov

Michael Howard's Criminal Justice and Public Order Act has passed Parliament. Not sure what my feelings are on the subject. There's much I support about it, but I have severe misgivings regarding, among other things, being allowed to draw conclusions about an accused's silence, and the whole 'repetitive beats' as sound nuisance. Aren't military marches composed of repetitive beats? It's a slippery slope.

Sun, 20 Nov

I realise that this doesn't work as a stress pressure release if I don't actually write in it. However, the days are just flying by. When I look back over the last month since my last entry, I can think of nothing important that stands out from the routine. I did find myself the centre of unwanted female attention again at a dinner party given by Louise Barton-Foster, not once, but twice. At least these two were not from my mother's circle of friends. Their intentions were clear, though. It's tiring to realise they are not interested in me as a person, but as a rather fat chequebook, or a rung on some ridiculous social ladder.

Sleep is only improved in very small ways. I'm holding steady, averaging 4-5 hours a night.

Mother called to firm up plans for the Christmas holiday. I can drive up Friday night the 23rd, then stay through Sunday the 8th of January. (Well, the company car can drive me, since it's estimated my own car won't be delivered until mid-January.) It'll be nice to get away from everything. Maybe I'll sleep a little better.

Last Sunday, the new Channel Tunnel began allowing passengers to cross. I was beginning to doubt it would ever actually open. Historic.

As for today, it was a very ordinary birthday.

Thurs, 1 Dec

It feels now as if we're in the dead of winter, especially so with the new moon; it gets dark very early as it is wont to do in December. I have made all necessary holiday purchases and have lent my signature to the Christmas cards going out to the clients. (I have never quite understood leaving holiday purchases until the last moment, then panicking to find the right thing. Then again, my list is relatively spare.)

I've been busy wrapping up the end of the year so that I can take it easy for those two weeks. I wonder if instead I shouldn't have booked a holiday somewhere warm and sunny, but remind myself that the holidays are about surrounding yourself with your loved ones, and my parents are really all I've got.

Sun, 11 Dec

Yeltsin has ordered troops into Chechnya. A story to watch.

Fri, 23 Dec

I have encountered many things as a barrister, but do not, until now, believe I've ever been ambushed.

I arrived just as my mother was preparing to serve dinner. My father was reading the newspaper and drinking a brandy, and was, bless him, oblivious to the conversation occurring around him. After the usual pleasantries, the conversation took a very unexpected turn.

"So I don't suppose, in a city as large as London, that you've ever run into Bridget Jones," she said as if it were the most natural, casual thing in the world to mention.

I stuttered a response, my mind racing to place the context. "Not to my knowledge."

"I only ask because I was visiting with Pam, who showed me some photos—she's a very pretty young lady now. _Very_ pretty. But then again, she was so adorable as a child, so it's really not that unexpected."

I realised she meant my young charge from our paddling pool days, all grown up. "Ah," I said, for lack of anything more to say.

The subject dropped for the time being, until we were part way through the meal.

"You know," said my mother, completely apropos of nothing, "I'm sure she'll be at the Alconburys' Turkey Curry Buffet on New Years Day. That'll be nice, won't it? You can talk. I'm sure you have lots in common."

I was extremely doubtful. "Oh, is she also a barrister?"

Mother pursed her lips. "There's more to have in common than just a career, Mark."

"So what _do_ we have in common?" I asked.

"Well…" she began. "I think she works in the city."

I stifled a chuckle. "So do millions of other people."

"Mark, there's no need to be rude," she said.

"Sorry," I said quickly, and I _was_ sorry, because she's my mother, not my enemy. My father then began talking about how he'd had a letter from one of his naval colleagues (as if she and I hadn't been talking at all), and the subject was again dropped.

I do hope it's for good.

Sun, 25 Dec

_(Christmas Day)_

A very pleasant day. My aunt Harriet and her son Simon arrived last evening and we all had a nice catch-up; however, I don't think she realises I am verging on forty, because her gift included a ridiculous pair of socks with a bumblebee pattern upon them. It is perplexing because she is otherwise fairly fashionable, and is not even twenty years older than I am. I even caught Simon sniggering behind his hand when I opened the package.

They stayed through breakfast then left; Harriet needed to go take Simon to visit his father. After they went I decided to sit by the fire, read the book from my mother and drink mulled wine until it was time for dinner.

I suspect I will sleep well tonight.

Mon, 26 Dec

_(Boxing Day)_

I slept the most I've done in months last night. Eight and a half hours. An anomaly, to be certain. The wine had much to do with it.

I expect this will not occur again tonight. My mother has, oh so subtly, returned to a subject I should have guessed was not in fact dropped.

"By the way," she said, unrelated to anything about which we had been talking, "Una's confirmed that Bridget's coming on New Years."

"Oh," I said, totally caught off-guard; I was not sure what sort of reply was expected.

"Pam told Una that she has to work on New Years Day, but that she'll be coming up afterwards."

"She's driving all this way just to spend a few hours at a party thrown by friends of her parents?" I asked. She said no more at that moment; it was almost as if she hadn't heard me. I was not about to pursue it further, either.

Una Alconbury then came by after lunch, bearing a gift for my parents and one for me. "Tell Mark," said my mother as I slipped a fingernail under the sellotape on my gift, "that Bridget's coming to the Turkey Curry Buffet." As if I hadn't believed her earlier.

Una puffed up, quite pleased with herself. "Of _course_ she's coming," she said. "She's being coming since she was running around with no clothes on!"

I opened the present. It was a jumper, dark navy, and when I held it up to inspect it, I saw that it had an argyle pattern on the front. It was unlike anything I owned or was likely to purchase; target audience for such a jumper was about twenty-five years my senior. I did not know what to say. I certainly did not want to hurt her feelings. I struggled to keep my features in check.

"I thought you might like something nice to wear on New Years," supplied Una with a bright smile. "You know, to impress."

I returned that smile fully. "Thank you very much," I said. I could only think about the verbal contortions Bridget would have to manage to try to compliment me on this thing.

Weds, 28 Dec

More hint-dropping here and there about Bridget coming to the Alconburys' Turkey Curry Buffet. It is becoming tedious, maddening and a bit offensive. Why does my mother believe I need help to find a girlfriend… or persist in believing I need one?

For added enjoyment, I shall also wear the bumblebee socks.

Thurs, 29 Dec

After my mother mentioned that I should pay a visit to my boyhood barber for a trim before meeting Bridget Jones, I'm afraid I lost my temper. After all, it is not as if I could be mistaken for a hippie.

"My hair's fine," I said curtly. "I do wish you'd stop fussing about the Turkey Curry Buffet."

She frowned. I felt instantly horrible. "I just want you to be happy, and you deserve someone nice."

Of course I agreed. I just didn't think it was likely to happen from the very small available pool of my mother's friends' daughters, both here in Cambridgeshire as well as Northamptonshire. My response to her was considerably less verbose: "I know."

"Especially after… what happened in America."

I lowered my eyes. This was, much to my gratitude, sufficient to end the conversation. I again wondered why the sudden zeal about my loneliness, and particularly the proposed remedy in the form of Bridget Jones.

I paid my penance. I must admit that the barber did a very nice job.

Sat, 31 Dec

My father, mother and I had a lovely dinner and in a couple of hours we'll pop open the sparkling wine and ring in the new year. Thinking back over the past year has sparked introspection the likes of with which I am unfamiliar. I suppose I could make a list of everything that's happened over the last year. It might help to organise my thoughts, allow me to process in a rational way the changes that have occurred, but on the other hand, it might completely overwhelm me and send me into the corner, quivering like a blancmange.

I look back to this time last year and to how happy I was; all right, perhaps not happy so much as satisfied. I wonder how I will feel in a year's time; will this (the present) be considered a happy or satisfied state compared to how things are at that future time? God, I hope not.

My life was on track, and in most ways still is. It's just time to readjust course.

Sun, 1 Jan

The Turkey Curry Buffet is over, and I have to admit it was not at all as I had expected. Not at all.

We arrived just after the time it was slated to start. Many of the usual faces were present, including the Joneses. I was a bit on my guard; I practically anticipated a physical ambush by the much-spoken-of Bridget Jones. Then I learned she had actually not arrived with her parents—and I reminded myself she was coming after work.

We had been there at least an hour when Bridget had not yet arrived; I began to relax a little, ate my turkey curry, and passed the time having a look over Geoffrey Alconbury's disturbing collection of tomes. It was when I heard the elaborate doorbell go off, then Una's high-pitched, animated voice coming from the front of the house proclaiming, "She got lost, everyone!", that I realised Bridget had arrived.

I hoped to sink into the book shelves. Maybe everyone would forget I was here. When Una trilled my name, said, "I've got someone nice for you to meet," I realised there was no escape.

I turned to face them (and my doom, or so it felt) and clapped eyes on the daughter of Pam and Colin Jones for the first time since we had both played together in a paddling pool in Buckingham. She was not particularly tall, even in her heeled black boots. She was dressed simply in a blue V-neck knit top and blue jeans; clearly she had not gone out of her way to 'dress to impress.' Her hair was loose, almost wild around her face. The expression she wore told me everything I needed to know about her opinion of the jumper I'd chosen to wear: disgust, even horror. She _was_ pretty, though, just as my mother had intimated, with stunning blue eyes. Last but not least, unlike the women with whom I had recently been acquainted—well, there is no delicate way to say this, but there was no escaping noticing her curvaceous figure.

Una looked completely beside herself. "Mark, this is Colin and Pam's daughter, Bridget. Bridget works in publishing, don't you, Bridget?"

"I do indeed," she said; I detected a mocking tone. Mocking?

"Well, I'll leave you two young people together," said Una. "Durr! I expect you're sick to death of us old fuddy-duddies."

"Not at all." The statement came out of my mouth of its own accord before I realised it made me sound like a fool. I tried smiling to smooth things over, but don't think I succeeded.

Una left us to an awkward silence. I was feeling on uncertain ground. This was not at all what I had expected; she was not immediately grasping my arm to stake a claim, flattering me excessively about my work, asking me how much I spent on my suits (to give examples of what I've endured these past months). Actually, it didn't seem she wanted to be there or talk to me at all. I realised quickly that I should probably speak, but I had no idea what to say, and my eyes continued to fix on the V-neck of her shirt.

'Publishing,' I thought. 'She works in publishing.'

"I. Um. Are you reading any… ah…." I stopped. "Have you read any good books lately?"

She looked at me like I was mad, to be honest, then suddenly said, "_Backlash_, actually, by Susan Faludi."

I was surprised it was not something more current. I had thought the arguments were poorly constructed and the conclusions drawn were fraught with logical fallacies. "Ah. Really? I read that when it first came out. Didn't you find there was rather a lot of special pleading?"

"Oh, well, not _too_ much…" she said, then changed the subject; in retrospect, it was probably for the best as it was no good to get into a feminist debate among this company. "Have you been staying with your parents over New Year?"

"Yes. You too?" Even as I asked it I knew it was ridiculous. I already knew she had come directly after work.

"Yes," she said, then quickly amended, "No. I was at a party in London last night. Bit hung over, actually." She then launched into a ramble about the holidays and particularly about New Years Resolutions, how it was impossible to quit smoking at the stroke of midnight, and eating to ease one's hangover. Here I'd been with my parents for a week and due to spend another here in the middle of nowhere, while she'd been out having fun. I must have seemed an awful bore; this conversation with me seemed politeness, nothing more.

If she'd arrived after work, she probably hadn't eaten and had a headache to ease; there was the buffet. Abruptly I said, "Maybe you should get something to eat," then turned to walk towards it, half-expecting her to follow. She did not.

I'd made predictions about the day; being absolutely snubbed had not been one of them.

The worst of it was that as the evening progressed, I witnessed her mother and Una bullying her into serving hors d'oeuvres, evidently trying to push her into my path when she had no desire to do so. I had many opportunities to observe her when she thought no one was watching; her exasperation was evident. She made no effort to mask how she felt, which I actually appreciated, even if it meant —well, why should I care if she didn't like me? I had been dreading this day, anyway.

And yet.

I admit I had been unprepared for this. Given the way Pauline, Janine and the others had thrown themselves at me, I fully expected more of the same. Indifference and disdain, not so much. This intrigued me.

As Bridget walked past with a tray of gherkins and other such things, Una appeared out of nowhere. "Mark, you _must_ take Bridget's telephone number before you go," she said; "then you can get in touch when you're in London."

I was not about to embarrass her when she had no interest in me. "I'm sure Bridget's life in London is quite full enough already, Mrs Alconbury."

Bridget spoke up. "Can't I tempt you with a gherkin?"

This startled me. "Thank you, no."

There were several more offers of silver skin onions and beetroot cubes. I did not know what else to do but pluck up a stuffed olive and thank her.

"Hope you enjoy it." There was a hint of victory in her voice. I had no idea what had just transpired.

As my parents and I put on our coats to leave, my mother came closer to me, consternation settled between her brows. Una was suddenly on my other side, looking equally grim. "Mark," she said. "Go on and offer… I don't know. A drive back to London."

"I'm not going to London tonight," I reminded her.

"I doubt she is either, but the offer counts."

I felt frog-marched by the two of them over to where Bridget was. She looked up at me with an expectant expression.

"Do you need driving back to London? I'm staying here but I could get my car to take you."

Without missing a beat, she asked, "What, all on its own?"

I blinked. I was at a loss for words.

Una chuckled. "Durr! Mark has a company car and a driver, silly."

"Thank you, that's very kind," she said with what would best be described as an impish little smile, "but I shall be taking one of _my_ trains in the morning."

Before I knew it we were back in my parents' drive; I had driven their car, and thank goodness for autopilot. After preparing for bed, I sat to write this in the hopes I could make sense of the evening; if the length of this entry is anything to go by, I should sleep like a baby.

Mon, 2 Jan

Regret to report that I had a terrible time sleeping last night.

_Later_

I tried to ask my mother a little more about Bridget over lunch, but she merely replied with an insufferably smug expression on her face, "You should have asked her yourself yesterday. She and I had a lovely chat about essential oils." Not very bloody helpful.

Una Alconbury stopped by to drop off a pan that had been used in preparation for last night's party. She had brought Geoffrey (he of the other argyle-patterned jumper last night) and they were on their way somewhere; I didn't ask, but I thought since Una had been in the know about Bridget's attendance of the Turkey Curry Buffet she might have a little more information to impart. Fortunately, the subject of Bridget came up without my introduction of it.

"So," my mother asked, "Bridget's on her way back already?" She was looking at me pointedly, as if our not hitting it off was the solitary reason she'd gone home.

"Yes, Pam says she was on the road first thing. Something about work again."

On the New Years Day holiday? I suspected a fib, just as yesterday had likely been. "What is it that she does in publishing?" I asked, trying not to seem overly interested. "It never came up."

"Editorial," said Una, beaming as if Bridget were her own daughter. "Literary whiz. _Totally_ obsessed with books. She has a first in English Literature." Una's hand went to her bosom and fluttered a bit, as it often did, as if it had a life of its own. "Such a glamorous life with the book launches and… oh, and she's a _radical_ feminist—"

And I'd brought up _Backlash_. _And_ criticised it.

"—but you wouldn't know it to look at her diary—men taking her out _all_ the time. _Millions_ of them, I'm sure!"

I must have seemed such a clod in comparison.

"Suppose you're sorry to have missed your chance," Geoffrey said in a blustering, all-boys-together way with a knowing wink, "especially with a figure like that, eh?"

"Of course not," I returned defensively and automatically, even though it was a lie. I was willing to take the blame for the lack of sparks firing, even though I found her infinitely more interesting than they'd ever guess, because ultimately it was my own fault.

Not unexpectedly, this shut down conversation on the subject.

Thurs, 5 Jan

So if Bridget has masses of men asking her out, why such an effort to set her up with

I get it now. _I_ was being set up with _her_. This is not helping me to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: 23 Jan - 24 May

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

Also, recall what I said about the strikethroughs. Argh. V. frustrating-not sure why that tag is disallowed.

* * *

**Chapter 2: 23 Jan – 24 May**

Mon, 23 Jan

The first month of the new year has been exceedingly busy. We have had case instructions sent up left, right and centre. I suppose I am grateful for the job security, though I admit with some chagrin that, after so long in America, wearing the wig has taken some getting used to again.

Another side benefit is that it has put me in close quarters with my fellow barristers in chambers. In fact I am having dinner with Giles and Natasha tonight. Giles' wife Veronica, whom I have not yet met, will be joining us.

Finally took delivery of vehicle. While I have appreciated having a car and driver at my beck and call, all told, I prefer to drive myself places; I dislike being perceived as some sort of privileged patriarchal twit—as I'm sure I was perceived on New Years.

Law Society Dinner oncoming. Tuxedo is pressed and ready to go.

Tues, 24 Jan

Still not sleeping terribly well. The chamomile tea was helping for a while (six hour nights) but I've stopped as it has become ineffective.

Dinner was nice; Veronica was pleasant, but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. Not in the sense I had met her before, but rather, the way she interacted with Giles. Can't put my finger quite on it though. I hope I am just reading things incorrectly.

Thurs, 26 Jan

Spoke with my mother tonight, mentioned Law Society Dinner tomorrow night. Immediately she asked if I was taking anyone. I told her I wasn't.

"That's too bad," she said. "I could ask Pam for Bridget's number if you like."

It was the first mention to me of her name since New Years Day. "I'm not going to call her like that out of the blue. She's got a full social calendar to hear Una talk, and the dinner's tomorrow."

I could almost hear my mother pursing her lips. "It's a shame, Mark," she said. "You shouldn't be alone."

She fails to realise that being alone is preferable to being with someone for the wrong reasons. She thinks I am nursing a broken heart. I am not.

"Bridget would be such excellent company," she went on. "Let me get it for you, and that way if you change your mind—"

Unbidden and in an instant, I imagined Bridget in a formal gown, amongst the stuffed shirts and trophy wives, looking positively —well, I just mean if she can do justice to blue jeans and a knit top….

Instead I said, "I can look up the number in the directory if I need to, but I doubt I'll change my mind."

Fri, 27 Jan

A nice night of socialising, but felt distinctly out of place. At least I had the company of Giles, Veronica and Natasha. The latter was quite valuable for broadening my network of legal professionals. She introduced me to her contacts, of which she has many; she seems to know everyone and has meaningful, personalised conversations with all of them. It's quite impressive.

Weds, 1 Feb

Realised some of my stress was in part due to feeling under-informed about my investments. Today had an appointment with the head of investments at my bank; we reviewed my portfolio and I feel much more reassured. I can't truly have control over market fluctuations, but as they say, knowledge is power.

Have been given a very sensitive and, I fear, time-consuming case on which to work, though the subject matter is something I feel strongly about (asylum case, family of five, including small children) and I couldn't give it a pass.

Tues, 14 Feb

Word out of a United Nations human rights violations tribunal today: twenty-one Bosnian Serb commanders have been charged. Genocide, crimes against humanity.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Thurs, 16 Mar

My apologies for not touching this for so very long. The case requires I put in long hours and I have been returning home so exhausted that I fall into bed and sleep right away. Unfortunately, I don't usually get home until about one or two in the morning, and the alarm sounds at six.

Absolutely devastating re: Barings Bank. Billions of pounds lost by Nick Leeson in Tokyo market speculation. Quite glad that was not where I had my investments. Too right that Leeson was arrested.

Fri, 31 Mar

The case that has been occupying my waking hours has come to a fruitful conclusion, and as of this evening, I am a free man, so to speak. My normal workload will seem like a holiday by comparison. I am thinking of driving up to spend the weekend with my parents. I haven't seen them in a while, and being away from the city seems very appealing.

Sat, 1 Apr

Slept well last night. A whole five hours.

Parents are at the Alconburys' for supper. This had been arranged weeks ago and they didn't want to cancel; they invited me along but I did not feel like being a gate-crasher, plus I really just wanted the solitude.

I decided to tune in to _Blind Date_ this evening while I ate my own supper. While switching through channels to find it I happened upon some kind of news programme, a debate regarding the role of women in the Tory Party. As a party member, the subject obviously piqued my interest. What made it very interesting is the side debate that arose about feminism; one of the women declared that to be a Tory as a woman was to work against your own best interest, and she was _very_ vocal in her opinions. After some minutes of arguing her point, she had become quite heatedly angry. I switched the channel, because I'm not particularly fond of watching people shouting in circles and not listening to what the other side is saying. That and it was quarter past. I didn't want to miss the _Blind Date_ introductions.

However, my thoughts were inexorably drawn back to Una's words about Bridget and her ardent feminism. I would have thought she would have welcomed the chance to debate _Backlash_; though I do understand not wishing to do so in the middle of the Turkey Curry Buffet, I didn't see the heated fire flare in her eyes that usually occurs when that book is criticised in any manner, the silent challenge that said she wanted to defend it at some later time. I thought about her for a few moments—what it was she might have been up to, if she too watched this ridiculous show—then realised I was being silly. It was a Saturday night. She was probably going out with one of her millions of men.

Turned out to be a pretty lively episode, though.

Sun, 2 Apr

Slept on and off last night; during sleeping moments I recall dreaming about the shouting woman on the news programme, and also Bridget standing with a tray of gherkins, a small smile on her face but saying nothing.

Had to have short lie down before driving back to London. Would not do to fall asleep at the wheel.

Mon, 3 Apr

An interesting day today.

Was asked by Natasha if I wanted to attend a book launch party with her on the 18th, which is the Tuesday just after Easter. I agreed. I'll be in Huntingdon for the long weekend (courts aren't open anyway). I may give the sleeping meds another try to get some good, restful sleep. Can't hurt while I've nothing I need really to concentrate on.

Then, after I returned to the hotel in which I am still living (more on that aggravation another time), I took a perch at the end of the concierge's counter in order to thumb through my mail when I heard a quiet female voice say, "Pardon me."

I looked up and found a woman standing there who seemed very familiar: quite thin; long, dark, curly hair pulled back into a barrette; olive skin; eyes so dark it was difficult to see her irises. She was smiling; it was a very nice smile. I realised in a flash I had seen her in the lobby last week, that she was also staying here. "Yes?" I asked, setting the mail down, and turning to look at her fully. She gave off a business-professional air in the suit she was wearing; she was also tall, nearly as tall as me.

"I hope you don't think it too forward of me," she said; her accent hinted that she was not local, possibly America or Canada, "but I've been here a week now and I've seen you eating on your own in the restaurant almost every night…" She smiled. "I was just wondering… I'm quite tired of eating on my own, too, and wondered whether you'd like to have dinner together."

I agreed, so now I'm in my room to deposit my mail and attaché before I return to the restaurant to meet Laurel.

_Later_

A very interesting day turned to night. Interesting for different reasons.

Tues, 4 Apr

A rare morning entry, over breakfast. My dinner with Laurel—from Toronto, here on business through the weekend—was punctuated with very interesting conversation. It seemed to me that she kept looking at me, but I thought I must have been imagining things.

Upon conclusion of dinner she tried to insist upon paying. "After all, I asked you," she tried to argue, but I refused and said that I would pay, to which she refused. In the end we agreed that we'd each pay for our own. Then, as we left for the lifts, she turned to me, touched my arm, leaned forward and close to me. "The night doesn't have to end yet," she said quietly. "I'd like very much to come to your room."

I turned to look at her, incredulous that she might be suggesting what I thought she was suggesting. The lift door opened; we went in, she took position by the buttons, and as soon as the doors closed she asked which floor. I didn't answer right away.

She then told me, bluntly and in no uncertain terms, that she was in fact suggesting returning to my room for sex. I'm still (relatively) young and hadn't had sex in more months than I cared to consider, which was starkly underscored in that moment by the prelude to involuntary reactions. I was not usually one for casual intimate encounters, but she was attractive, she was from out of town, I was relatively certain she was not actually soliciting me for money—

I told her I had one of the penthouses.

She was prepared—I wondered exactly when she had decided to target me in this way—and so we got straight to the point. She was very direct. Her body was too lean for my liking, and it seemed odd that she never took off her bra; I suspect, upon reflection, that it was padded and she did not want her secret revealed. The act was brief and relatively perfunctory, though ultimately it satisfied the physical need. Afterwards I found myself thinking if I might actually sleep well that night. (Better than most, though not nearly long enough.)

I was rousing from that post-coital sleepy state when I realised she was up and buttoning her shirt, stepping into her shoes. She noticed I was looking at her and she gave me a uncomfortable, tight smile. "I have to go," she said, then grabbed her handbag and left my room.

I was too tired and too woozy from the wine we'd had to do more than get ready to go to sleep. Up again by five. Breakfast now.

_Later._

After dinner now.

I saw Laurel in the lobby after work. I offered a smile. I thought she saw me, but she carried on as if she hadn't. I said her name; she offered another polite smile and continued on.

I joined her waiting for the lift again. It took very long to come. She stared ahead, clearly ignoring me. I struggled to think what had gone so wrong.

Quietly I said, "You left very suddenly."

"Yes," she said crisply. "I had some unfinished business to attend to."

"Did I… hurt you in some way?"

The doors opened, and she strolled in. "No," she said, meeting my eyes at last. "I didn't feel a _thing_." She then punched a button. I watched, stunned, as the doors closed in my face.

I freely admit this was a blow to my ego, but I _had_ asked, and she'd already demonstrated her capacity for frankness. I had only myself to blame in more than one respect. Maybe because it had been so long since

Maybe I'm just not the kind of man who can jump into bed with someone I don't know at all, but I don't think that's it. This (and the scotch I've imbibed) is drawing a line under the fact that my wife also left very suddenly and it is inescapable that I am the common denominator; okay, technically I left her, but she was the one who abandoned me first by sleeping with two weeks after the wedding. Surely a satisfied woman doesn't The thought that she could have started it before we'd ever exchanged vows

I can't think about this now.

Thurs, 13 Apr

It is a bit ridiculous to admit to having felt too ashamed to open this journal because I did not want to lay my eyes on the previous entries. However, it's in the past and I must move beyond it.

I am once more at my parents for the long holiday weekend. We took a walk, all three of us together, during which my mother brought me up to date on the local news. Harriet and Simon coming for Easter. I admit that I am looking forward very much to hot cross buns on Easter morning, more than I should.

Mon, 17 Apr

Back in London. The weekend was very pleasant, and with the help of the sleeping meds on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, I feel excessively well-rested, though during the daytime I remembered why I didn't care to take them.

One interesting event on Saturday—I saw Bridget in Kettering. I drove my mother to a butcher's there to retrieve the last rack of lamb in all of Northamptonshire (Cambridgeshire was a bust too), previously secured by a telephone call. I waited in the car because there were no free spaces in the car park, and my car wasn't exactly in a legal parking space.

It was after about a minute or two that I saw her, coming down the street (from the grocer's, I'd guess) with a plastic carrier bag in one hand filled to bursting with apples, and in the other, an apple from which she was about to take a bite. I guessed from the colour of their skin and the fact she'd bought quite a lot of them that the apples were Bramleys, which are fine for cooking but a bit on the tart side for eating. (I had learnt this the hard way as a boy of nine.) I waited for the inevitable reaction, and I started to chuckle as her face puckered with the acidity of the mouthful she'd had. To her credit she swallowed it with a grimace, then stopped to put the apple back into the bag. She went on to what must have been her car, a Mini, put the bag onto the passenger seat then went around to the driver's side, got in and drove off.

What struck me in that moment was how, even in a quick run to the shop, in casual clothes, subdued cosmetics (or possibly none at all), a sloppy pony tail, and a sour face from a cooking apple, that she was still quite pretty. It's too bad I

Tues, 18 Apr

Tonight was the book launch party I previously mentioned, which I attended at Natasha's request. It was for a book called _Kafka's Motorbike_, and it pains me to say I don't even remember the author's name. This is in part due to running unexpectedly into the aforementioned apple biter.

It caught me quite aback. I first noticed a group of four women talking, and that I knew two of them in passing. I hadn't seen them since I've been back (and seeing them now was too soon, to be frank). That was when I realised the third of the four was Bridget. I steered us nearer. They seemed to be discussing television.

I observed Bridget taking food from a tray and had just put it into her mouth when she saw me standing there in front of her. I said hello to her. I watched her mouth gape open ever so slightly—clearly surprised by my presence, possibly by my attire, as I was _sans_ argyle—as she offered a muffled "Hello" in response. Then, she turned towards the one woman I did not know and proceeded to introduce us in a very odd manner, one that almost made me wonder if she was mocking me, somehow.

"Perpetua is…" She stopped. The pause was far too long.

I prompted, "Yes?"

She snapped out of it. "…is my boss and is buying a flat in Fulham, and Mark is…" She turned to this rather stout woman. "…a top human rights lawyer."

"Oh, hello, Mark. I know _of_ you, of course," this woman called Perpetua said; I guessed she'd heard of me from her friends, Arabella and Piggy. (I've no idea a.) what her real name is and b.) why this is a nickname she would encourage others to use. I suppose the alternative is: c.) it's her given name. If so, poor thing.)

"Mark, hi!" This from Arabella, whom I knew only from the occasional drinks party.

Perpetua went on about how they were talking of hierarchies of culture: "Bridget is one of these people who thinks the moment when the screen goes back on _Blind Date_ is on a par with Othello's 'hurl my soul from heaven' soliloquy!"

I was quick to respond. "Ah. Then Bridget is clearly a top post-modernist." I saw the momentary look of surprise; I went on, introducing Natasha. "Natasha is a top family-law barrister."

The conversation continued on the same theme, modern pop culture taking the classics and reducing them to the lowest common denominator; Perpetua was ridiculous, and Natasha, more ridiculous still, which surprised me. I had to stifle a laugh at the rubbish about a 'ventilating deconstructionalistic freshness of vision' and 'the ultimate _vandalisation_ of the cultural framework'—I mean, it was like she was determined to ride this rambling, flaming train wreck to the end of the line.

Flustered, Natasha finished with, "What I mean is, if you're taking that sort of cutesy, morally relativistic, '_Blind Date_ is brilliant' sort of line…"

"I wasn't, I just really like _Blind Date_," Bridget said in all earnestness. "Though I do think it would be better if they made the pickees make up their own replies to the questions instead of reading out those stupid pat answers full of puns and sexual innuendos."

"Absolutely," I agreed immediately.

"I can't stand _Gladiators_, though. It makes me feel fat. Anyway, nice to meet you. Bye!"

With that she left the group; it was impossible to think of her as 'fat' with the way her bottom the blouse and skirt she was wearing. The abruptness with which she left made me think she wanted to flee my presence as soon as socially acceptable.

A short while later, I observed something that I hoped was my mind playing tricks on me, but swiftly realised it was not: the man who had revealed my marriage to be a sham was placing his hands on Bridget's waist and leaning in to give her a kiss. They looked like they had already been intimate; the way he was kissing

I had a very bad feeling about that. I didn't stay much longer after that. I did not want to talk to Daniel Cleaver, and it was pointless to try to warn her.

Weds, 19 Apr

Technically correct, as it is after midnight. Very bad time sleeping. I can't get my mind to wind down from worrying about (yes, this is silly) Bridget. I hope very much that this was just one of the so-called 'millions of men' taking her out, and not someone to whom she is excessively attached.

_Later (before bed)_

Natasha asked me if I had a nice time at the launch. I told her I had. She apologised, in her words, "if I seemed like I was beating a dead horse, but when I feel strongly about something I can't let it go." I told her it was all right.

"So how do you know that woman?"

I'd encountered many women last night, so I asked which one.

"That Bridget person," she said; "you know, the one hung up on _Blind Date_."

She conveniently forgot (or ignored) the fact that I had supported 'that Bridget person' in her opinion on _Blind Date_. I told Natasha we'd known each other as children, and that was really the second conversation I'd had with her in the whole of my adult life. N. still seemed very sceptical but then changed the subject.

She asked me if I'd like to see a play with her on Friday night, something she'd booked tickets for months ago but the person she was originally going to take backed out at the last moment. Why not? It's better than the alternative.

Thurs, 20 Apr

Terrible tragedy: bombing in US, at a federal building in Oklahoma. Rather puts minor issues into perspective, like seeing a play one is not interesting in seeing.

Fri, 21 Apr

Play was boring, pretentious claptrap. N. loved it.

Sun, 23 Apr

Surprised this morning by a telephone call from my brother, with whom I speak all too infrequently (in part due to being several time zones away), and doubly surprised by the announcement that he is getting married.

"Hope I didn't wake you," he said sheepishly. It was eight in the morning, and I was already drinking my coffee. Told him so.

"Very pleased for you," I said, and I was, though I admit to feeling a little bit envious. My brother, who is two years my junior, is engaged and I have no prospect in the foreseeable future.

"We'll be in London next month," he said. "Hope to see you and introduce you to Kate."

"You can count on it," I said. "How did you meet?"

"We both work at the bank," Peter said. "She's a PA in a different area and we struck up a friendship… which then turned romantic."

"How long have you been seeing her?"

"About six months," Peter said. I felt awful; I should have known this about my brother, but I'd been dealing with everything going to pieces in my own life… though to be honest, the time frame was a little worrying to me. Peter chuckled, then added. "Feel like this is an interrogation, big brother."

"Sorry," I said quickly. "So when's your trip?"

He chuckled again. "On 13 May. It's a Saturday."

"Send me the itinerary and I'll get the car to pick you up." Peter knows I try not to go to the airport unless absolutely necessary. "Sorry I can't offer you a spare room," I said. "Unless a miracle occurs and I have a house found and I'm moved in by then." (No progress on that front.)

We talked a little more; he asked how I was doing since the divorce, asked if I was seeing anyone new. I told him I wasn't.

It was nice to talk to him, though feeling a bit.

Mon, 24 Apr

N. offered to take me to lunch, which I accepted. She is interesting to talk to; even when we disagree, it leads to some interesting debates. She tried analysing the crap play we'd seen, but I derailed her, thinking of the feminist/Tory debate on the news programme I'd passed a few weeks ago (in looking for _Blind Date_ out in Huntingdon). It felt like I was stirring up a bit of a hornet's nest but it did make for a lively lunch.

I did notice, though, how her opinion kept shifting (very subtly, mind) depending on my responses. Hm.

New case acquired today. I foresee many late nights in my future.

Thurs, 27 Apr

New case necessitates working extensively with a family law expert, so at least my dinners aren't alone, even if they are takeaway meals. If I had to guess, I would peg her as extroverted or at the very least kinaesthetic. There is a physicality to everything she does—she strides around to think and makes contact (hand on my forearm or shoulder) when she talks to me. I don't even think she thinks about doing it, but it takes a little getting used to.

Got Peter's itinerary. They're booked for this hotel for the first few nights (presumably going to visit our parents for part of the visit). Don't know why this seems so funny to me—maybe it makes me feel like I'm just a visitor too.

Fri, 28 Apr

N. suggested we wrap up early and have dinner. With the progress we'd made I agreed and we went to some new, trendy bistro that was frankly a little too noisy for my liking. The food, however, was excellent.

She wanted to know if I wanted to join her for a nightcap. I declined. "Some other time?" she asked. I said I supposed so. I just really wanted to get home and crawl into bed for a peaceful night's sleep.

Of course, it's verging on midnight now and I haven't gotten anywhere, re: sleep.

Sat, 29 Apr

N. rang up just as I was about to have dinner to see if I wanted to join her. When I told her I already had plans (if 'takeaway Chinese' counts as plans), she said she'd had a brainwave and really wanted to discuss something about the case with me and would after dinner drinks work. I didn't see why not, so I agreed. We agreed to meet at the bar at the Savoy.

Hammered out her brainwave regarding the case, though her choice in clothing took me by surprise. I was very used to seeing her in her very staid business attire, not in a blouse with a very low vee-neck. She leaned in frequently to speak to me in order to point out items on her bulleted list, so I could not help but notice it. I don't make a habit of commenting on women's fashion but the blouse was not a good choice for her as it only served to emphasise the lack of endowment.

Thu, 4 May

It's hard to believe it's already the fifth month of the year, and that I have been keeping this for just over seven months. Journal-keeping is helping only marginally with sleep—perhaps it's because I don't divulge enough within these pages, and therefore don't diffuse the stress enough—but now I'm in the habit it seems strange not to do it.

N. and I are through working together on our joint case as of tonight, and while I'm glad the case is coming to a successful resolution, I find that I am not looking forward to the return of spending my evenings on my own. She has asked me to dinner tomorrow night as a sort of celebration of our success and of how well we work together. I agreed. We do work together wonderfully; rather like a well-oiled machine. I look forward to similar future collaborations.

Sat, 6 May

Dinner was excellent, in the spirit of our professional camaraderie I accepted the proffered nightcap afterward. I drove us to her Chelsea flat. We had some very good brandy, and after we'd had our drinks she approached me with intent. I realised then what she'd been trying to suggest all along: she wanted more than a professional relationship. I thought, 'Why not?' We're adults and we had, to date, been compatible. She's attractive, very bright and I didn't mind spending time with her. There is the added reassurance that she is financially secure in her own right, and is not interested in me for my chequebook.

I went directly home afterwards; I am pleased she did not turn out to be clingy and full of silly romantic fantasy. Had to rise early and meet Giles for squash. I won the match.

Tues, 9 May Weds, 10 May

Back to work after bank holiday. N. intimated she would like to see me again. I suggested dinner on Friday. She countered with, "What's wrong with tonight?" I had no objection to tonight. Home far too late, though.

Thurs, 11 May

Estate agent has found a house she thinks I'll like in Holland Park. I'm going to have a look tomorrow. Natasha offered to come along.

Fri, 12 May

Though it's a bit large for just myself, I was quite pleased with the house. N. said I'd be a fool to pass it up. I told the agent to proceed. I'll be very glad to have a place of my own.

Mentioned that my brother is arriving tomorrow. N. said she can't wait to meet him.

Sun, 14 May

Peter and Kate were too tired to meet yesterday. They called to let me know they'd arrived safely (which the driver had already told me), but were just too shattered with jet lag. Instead we met for impromptu lunch today. Kate is a lovely lady. Long brown hair, brownish eyes. She's nice-looking and I can see why she caught Peter's eye. (Thinner than I find attractive, which is rich given.) Anyway, I'm very pleased for Peter. I felt a bit guilty about neglecting to mention the lunch date to N., but I really just wanted to spend time with them on my own.

When I talked to N. afterwards she asked about Peter. I told her we'd had a nice lunch and had planned for dinner. After a pause, she said, "Shall I be there at seven, then?"

_Later_

My mother and father came up London in time to join us for dinner tonight. I had forgotten they'd arranged to do so. They got to meet N. My mother's manners are always impeccable, but I could tell she seemed a bit put out that N. had invited herself along to this family reunion of sorts. Mother asked me how long we'd been seeing each other. N. responded with a smile and answered vaguely, suggesting it'd been a while. She and I have only been sleeping together a little over a week.

They're all returning to Huntingdon on Tuesday afternoon. Mother casually asked about having lunch on Saturday at the house. "We'd love to," piped up N.

Tues, 16 May

In attempting to settle paperwork, some sort of discrepancy has surfaced regarding the roof of the house. It isn't enough to deter me from wanting it, but it may take a little time to sort out. I'm getting tired of living in a hotel. I want to feel rooted here in London.

I admit to having ignored N.'s call tonight. I have seen almost her every day or night for about three weeks now and I needed to have some time to myself. I don't really think of us as 'together' or as a couple—perhaps I have given her the wrong impression, since she is behaving as if we have been dating for years.

Sun, 21 May

Lunch yesterday with my family in Huntingdon went better than expected. I admit I took the liberty to more closely scrutinise my brother's fiancée, now that we were in a less than neutral setting. I watched for any sign that she might be, to be blunt, after him for his money or due to his status. To go from meeting to engagement within just over a half a year, as I mentioned, is troublingly quick, and Peter is quite well off; I would hate to see him suffer through the same sort of situation I did.

Kate came dressed casually compared to the two previous times I had met her, wearing a summery dress with a subtle floral print. I don't think N. cared much for it at all, if I interpreted her expression correctly upon seeing it. I am starting to believe that she's allergic to anything remotely feminine (in the traditional sense).

We had mostly gone through the usual polite small-talk when we'd had dinner the previous week, but Kate (her family, background, and so on) was still the subject of many of our questions. If our mini-inquisition offended her, it never showed. She bore the questions with a smile.

"You're a PA, then?" asked N.

While this simple (if direct) question elicited a sharp glance from my mother, Kate offered up a bright, almost bubbly, "Oh, yes. It's great. I'm never bored."

"She's too modest," Peter said. "She's not just a PA. She's the PA for the Financial Controller."

I don't know if that meant anything to my parents, but it did to me, and it certainly registered with N. "That must be very interesting indeed," she said smoothly. "He's quite sure he can do without you for a fortnight?"

"She's getting on fine," said Kate, deftly correcting the assumption without drawing a lot of attention to it. "My assistant's got it under control."

N. then turned to my father to engage him (to his unmitigated delight) in a rather lengthy discussion of the history of the Royal Navy. Kate looked to me with a smile that seemed almost sympathetic, but I wasn't sure why that was.

We left afterwards. I decided after that lunch I liked Kate; that she was genuine and truly in love with my brother. There was not one thing that I could put my finger on that sealed it for me. They just seemed so comfortable together. At ease. Happy.

N. and I had supper together then returned to her flat for drinks. Spoke to Mother today, though, who pressed for more detail on my relationship with N. I told her it was not a relationship. She quickly changed the subject, though the new subject surprised me.

"Have you seen Bridget?"

"Bridget? No, I haven't," I said, deliberately not mentioning the book launch last month. I figured that might just complicate things more. Against my better judgment, I asked, "Why?"

"Pam," she said. "Her mother. Apparently seeing some European fellow called Julian or Julio; Una wasn't sure. I was just wondering if you'd seen Bridget. I know she's very close to her father."

"I haven't," I said again, though I felt a little discombobulated. I found Pam Jones something of an irritant, but I was always under the impression (from my mother) that her parents were very happy together. And now she leaves him for another man who apparently wants her. It makes no sense at all.

"I only asked because I was wondering if she was okay," Mother said.

I admit, I wonder too. I couldn't imagine how I'd feel if my mother had run off with some other man.

Weds, 24 May

Over dinner this evening, I listened to N. today point out every perceived flaw about my prospective sister-in-law. Sometimes I think she likes to talk to hear herself talk. I don't even feel like I need to actually be there.

Being in someone's company shouldn't make a person feel quite so lonely. I suppose, however, it's better than actually being alone.


	3. Chapter 3: 8 Jun - 1 Oct

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

And... again, strikethrough fail. If something looks weird or out of place, it's probably supposed to look like it's been crossed out.

* * *

**Chapter 3: 8 Jun – 1 Oct**

Thurs, 8 Jun

Progress on the house. The business with the roof has been sorted and the purchase process is underway. I hope to close by early August, touch wood.

I have decided to host a party to celebrate my parents' upcoming 40th anniversary in September. Forty years of marriage is an accomplishment that deserves recognition. I don't know if my brother and Kate will be able to come back in order to attend, but I will give them plenty of notice.

I'll pencil it in for the weekend of the 24th of September and start making some calls.

Fri, 9 Jun

Who knew people routinely planned parties so far in advance? I'll have to make a decision soon. There isn't much selection up north, and party planning has already begun for Christmas (unbelievable). I suppose I could hire a London firm for the catering and have them transport it to Huntingdon. I'll do that if I need to.

Sat, 10 Jun

Had brief conversation with Peter, let him know about my ideas for planning a party for their big anniversary. He says there's a better chance they can attend if the party's the week after rather than before (end of quarter reporting), but not to change everything on their account. I don't think it will much matter if it's not on the exact anniversary, particularly to accommodate a son travelling a good distance to be here. Our parents would be delighted to see them again so soon.

Sun, 11 Jun

Squash with Giles. Good match, though it seemed to me that he was distracted. When I asked if everything was all right, he just said that his wife was being a bit odd lately.

Dinner and drinks with N. A better evening than recent ones, though I found that I too was distracted. I don't know why, but I found myself thinking of New Years Day, of the Turkey Curry Buffet, and of the car that Bridget thought drove all on its own. Thought also of the last time I'd seen her, at the launch, with Cleaver. I really hope she's not getting herself tangled up with him.

Mon, 12 Jun

Quite a surprise this evening at N.'s place. There on the floor in her sitting room was what was obviously the case to a bowed, stringed instrument. I asked about it.

"Oh, the viola," she said offhandedly. "I've been playing since I was seven. Here."

With that, without any invitation on my part, she popped the instrument case open, then hoisted it up into place as easily as someone without such long limbs might do with a violin. She plucked at the strings and fiddled with the tuning and then she began to play. I must confess within the pages of this journal that while she was technically _very_ proficient, her playing was rather mechanical, lacking spark, passion or spirit.

Hm.

Sat, 24 Jun

Been busy with phone calls and errands related not only to the party, but to the purchase of the house. Add to that working long hours on my caseload… I'm lucky if I get five hours a night of sleep. (I haven't forgotten the original goal of keeping this journal.)

Had asked my mother for prospective guest list for the party. It would have been nice to have this be a surprise, but I could hardly have done her guest list justice without her input. She sent it to me by post. Worried now that the house in Huntingdon is not going to be sufficient. Small note at the bottom of her list: "Do you think the children might like to come—Bridget, for example?"

After a thoughtful moment, I pencilled in Bridget's name.

Tues, 27 Jun

Rung up today on my portable phone by Una Alconbury, which was something of a surprise. Was having supper with N. at the time.

"Mark," Una said; as usual she sounded on the verge of divulging a big secret. "Are you free on the 29th?"

Two days from now, on Thursday? "I'll be working," I said. N. was watching me like a hawk.

"Durr, of July," she added. "It's a Saturday. We're having a garden party. I thought I'd just ring up and let you know. You can bring your girlfriend."

My first instinct was to correct her on the misapprehension, but didn't want to sound rude. "I think my diary's free that day. Count us in."

"Great!" she said. "Oh, it's fancy dress. Tarts and vicars. Looking forward, bye!"

Of course, N. asked me immediately what that was about, and I was feeling too ambushed to make up a convincing lie. Of course, she insists we attend. Perhaps I should have mentioned the fancy dress party aspect straightaway though, because she looked quite annoyed when I informed her it was tarts and vicars.

"Oh," she said in a very tight voice. "Well. That'll be fun."

I was starting to think it might be. I would only have to don a collar. I found myself looking forward to seeing what her idea of a 'tart' was.

Tues, 4 July

PM Major holds on to Conservative leadership. Should make for interesting election next time around.

Weds, 12 Jul

Unsettling news re: Srebrenica. It troubles me deeply that the safe area was breached.

Weds, 19 Jul

Received phone message from Mother today, passing on word that the fancy dress part of the party has been nixed. When I told N. she seemed smug. "I had a feeling," she said. She hadn't bothered to arrange for a costume.

No mention has been made here re: sleeping poorly, because I still am. Maybe I should just take the pills, and deal with—no, I can't.

Sat, 22 Jul

The whole truth about what's happened in Srebrenica may take years to fully investigate, or for justice to be served. Sometimes I wish I were blissfully unaware of these things. Not even shopping for furniture for the house with N. helped—in fact, it made me feel even worse.

Sat, 29 Jul

On the subject of things closer to home…

We set out for the garden party at about noon, and since my mother never suggested we stay the night, we planned on driving back the same night, probably in time to catch a late dinner in London. We arrived later than expected, and I apologised for the tardiness. "Oh, you're hardly the last to arrive," said Una in her fluttery voice as N. went off to find my parents. "I expect Bridget got lost again."

Bridget. I hadn't even considered she would be there.

We got settled in with drinks and something to eat from the barbeque area. N. had actually made an attempt at worn a dress, which surprised me: a pale lavender thing with a matching jacket. Under the marquee she slipped her sunglasses onto her head, beamed a smile to my parents. "Lovely to see you both again," she said, voice smooth as satin.

I was mostly quiet; I noted that Mrs Jones was there hanging on the arm of a man I assumed was this Julio/Julian person I'd heard about. After a little while I begged off to find the toilets—I mostly just wanted a little time to myself, because it had already been a trying day (trying week, really). I took a circuitous route around the garden to the house. On my way back from the house, as I walked along the herbaceous border, I overheard a man's voice (accent was maybe Spanish or Portuguese) speaking in a hushed tone; I realised it was a.) Julio (decided to settle on this version of the name, based on his voice) and b.) that he was talking into a portable phone to someone about a deal he was trying to arrange involving time-shares. I was immediately suspicious of the secretive nature of the call, and a mention of time-shares especially raised my hackles; I had seen too many cases come through chambers about time-share swindles.

It was about four when things got a little livelier. We were walking together, N. and I, when I was alerted to a latecomer's arrival by the way everything got eerily silent. I glanced over and saw… well, it was Bridget and she looked se. She had not been informed of the change from fancy dress so she was wearing a tight black lacy bodysuit, a bow tie, a white apron made of pocket squares, suspenders and stockings, and fixed on her backsi a cotton tail from which I could not look away. She was absolutely

Una went towards her bearing a Pimm's; I overheard that Geoffrey Alconbury had been charged to inform her of the change, but had not left a message on her answerphone. I saw N. smirking as she raised her sunglasses to rest on her head again for a better look.

Una went on: "Anyway, how's this new chap, then? What's he doing working on a Saturday? Durrrr! That's not a very good excuse, is it? How are we going to get you married off at this rate?"

Morosely, Bridget replied, "At this rate I'm going to end up as a call girl."

It was at this unfortunate moment that Bridget noticed N. and me. I diverted my eyes away in time to see N. smirking once more. "Have you come from another party?"

"Actually, I'm just on my way to work," she said evenly and without hesitation. I couldn't help myself from smiling, but looked away to avoid looking at her meeting her eyes and saw instead N.'s expression of confusion.

I realised too that Una was suggesting she had a boyfriend. I felt irrationally unhappy about this.

The scene broke up when her mother (and Julio), wielding a camera for some inexplicable reason) came by. I immediately turned to find Una.

"Have you got something Bridget could put on?" I asked in a subdued voice, gesturing in her direction. "It must be very uncomfortable for her with all these older men around…"

"Say no more," said Una. She immediately shot towards Bridget. As I watched them walk away towards the house, I could not help but think Geoffrey Alconbury had withheld the change in plans intentionally.

"Ho-ho, taking in the scenery?" said the man himself, from out of nowhere.

"I suggested she put something on over the costume," I said defensively, feeling myself flush red.

"Spoilsport," Geoffrey said with a wink, then returned to his barbecue.

A short while later, whilst N. was chatting up the Enderburys (probably in an effort to impress my mother), Una and Bridget returned; Bridget was clad in a floral dress with enormous puffed sleeves. She looked completely humiliated. I could not help overhearing Una talking to her. It would have been difficult not to hear her, and in fact I believe the raised volume was for my benefit, as the subject of the conversation was obviously N.:

"I don't think much of the girlfriend, do you? Very much the Little Madam." (The way she said it screamed capitalisation.) "Elaine thinks she's desperate to get her feet under the table. Oh, hello, Mark!" She said this last portion as if pretending to notice me, and in a rather hostile tone as if I had brought someone else to the party out of spite. "Another glass of Pimm's? What a shame Bridget couldn't bring her boyfriend. He's a lucky chap, isn't he?" She turned to Bridget, hands fluttering as they do when she talks excitedly. "What's his name, Bridget? Daniel, is it? Pam says he's one of these super-duper young publishers."

I was stunned. "Daniel Cleaver?"

"Yes, it is, actually," she said defiantly, raising her chin. My stomach dropped like a stone.

"Is he a friend of yours, Mark?" Una asked.

"Absolutely not," I retorted immediately.

"Oooh. I hope he's good enough for our little Bridget," Una said with one of her inappropriate winks.

I reined in the mounting urge to say what I really thought of Cleaver. Instead: "I think I could say again, with total confidence, absolutely not."

My words and tone must have scared off Una, who bounded off after Audrey Coles. Bridget, however, sat there simmering until Una was out of earshot, then said angrily, "I suppose you think that's clever."

"What?" I asked, surprised at the belligerence in her tone.

"Don't you 'What?' me, Mark Darcy," she said sternly.

"You sound just like my mother," I said, because she did.

"I suppose you think its all right to slag people's boyfriends off to their parents' friends behind their back when they're not even there for no reason just because you're jealous," she said, and honestly, I was floored. Jealous?

I caught a glimpse of N. heading my way, and stared at Bridget for a moment before speaking again. "Sorry. I was just trying to figure out what you mean. Have I…? Are you suggesting that I am jealous of Daniel Cleaver? Over you?"

"No, not over _me_," she said quickly… too quickly. "I was just assuming you must have some reason to be so horrible about my boyfriend other than pure malevolence."

It would have been the perfect opportunity, except—

"Mark, darling." It was N. coming ever closer. "Come and tell your mother about the dining furniture we saw in Conran."

"Just take care of yourself, that's all," I said quickly in a quiet, low tone; thinking of the overheard Julio conversation, I added, "and I'd tell your mum to watch out for herself too." I nodded towards her mother's beau before N. took my elbow and herded me over to my parents.

I don't think she stayed much longer—not an hour more, I think—and I saw her leave minutes before her father arrived with a bunny-suited Penny Husbands-Bosworth. I felt her humiliation keenly. N. just tittered a laugh.

We did not stay much longer, either. On the drive home is when I got to hear her unadulterated opinions about women who actually willingly decide to dress up as tarts.

"What kind of woman," she said, "demeans herself in such a way? Then to talk about becoming a call girl, and being on her way to work?"

"I think Bridget was kidding," I said coolly.

"Still, one has to have pretty poor self-esteem, a terrible self-image, to think it's ever a good idea to dress in such a tacky fashion. It's just for attention."

"It initially was a fancy dress party," I reminded. "Do you mean to say you wouldn't have gone if the theme hadn't changed?"

"Of course not," she huffed.

"I would have," I said.

She scoffed a laugh. "You're a terrible liar, Mark."

"I'm not lying."

"How can you possibly support such self-degradation and call yourself a human rights lawyer?"

At this point I was too furious to reply, and said nothing more. I didn't even want to have dinner with her, so I made up what I'm sure was a feeble-sounding excuse about feeling headachy after spending the afternoon in the sun. I dropped her at her flat then went to Le Pont de la Tour to eat on my own with my copy of _The Famished Road_, through which I have been attempting to make my way since it won the Booker Prize. (Yes, four years later. It _is_ a sizable tome.)

Sun, 30 Jul

Really. Me, jealous? It's

Mon, 31 Jul

Very bad night's sleep both Saturday and Sunday nights. After some deliberation, I have made a decision: it does me no good to have a journal if I consistently censor out the things that are the source of my stress. I will try to be better about being forthright and cross out fewer things, and maybe use these pages to analyse myself a little more.

It was re-reading Saturday's entry that brought me to this realisation.

First: I can't stop thinking about what Una said about Natasha being the little madam, and intimating she was clamouring for a spot in the family; why, I'm not sure, as we are not titled, and my parents are not especially well-off. Or perhaps… it's nothing to do with my family at all, but me. Just like Amanda. My mother has never seemed particularly thrilled with Natasha, but I'd always assumed it was because I had apparently chosen her over Bridget.

Second: I cannot deny that I was profoundly affected by the sight of Bridget in the bunny girl outfit, and my thoughts have not strayed far from what I saw there at the Alconburys'. It's ridiculous, because it's not like I have never seen a woman's body before.

And yet, when I close my eyes, I can still see every curve. The collar, where her chest was well on display. The high cut of the bodice's legs, the lace edge, and those gartered stockings. The bow tie nestled on her throat. And the tail on her bottom.

All of that paired with two other aspects that are attractive to me: a quick wit and the ability to self-deprecate, both of which were evidenced in her immediate retort to Natasha. ("Actually, I'm just on my way to work." Just thinking of the wry reply makes me smile, even now.)

Third: Jealousy. Is it possible I am jealous? The thought of her unwavering loyalty to that man boils my blood, though it's only natural that a woman be loyal to her boyfriend, isn't it? My reaction seems disproportional. What is this if not jealousy?

I feel like there's something wrong with me. I don't think it's normal to be so fixated, so obsessed, like this. It's ridiculous to feel this way when I don't know her that well—but what I do know I like very much.

Sat, 26 Aug

I have opened this many times over the last month and found I don't know what to say, so I closed it without saying anything. It surprises me that I was so candid about my feelings—to be honest, it embarrasses me a little to read back over it—but what surprised me more is that it actually seemed to help to get it down on paper. I slept extremely well in the days to follow.

I have been very busy, too. Primarily what's been taking up my time has been getting fully moved into my new home in Holland Park. It still feels very empty, and I'm still in process of furnishing the place. After much deliberation, it was decided that we move the party to Holland Park instead of having it in Huntingdon. It's a much more accommodating space. RSVPs will come back directly to me. Having rather a fun time picking out decorations for the party, actually.

It's the bank holiday weekend so I decided to come to the country. N. surprised me by not insisting on joining me. I think she's picked up on the fact that being so smothering is not winning points with me or my family, so she's backed off. I feel horrible saying that I still see her for the companionship. (N. actually helped address the invitations. I saw her pull a face when she saw Bridget's name.)

It's funny to say that, which suggests I'm keeping N. around because I can't find anyone else… because apparently I'm one of London's fifty most eligible bachelors, according to _Tatler_. I was rather mortified (and annoyed) to discover I'd been featured when Nigel brought it to my attention with an excessive amount of teasing. It's just as well that I'm in the country, alone. I don't feel particularly eligible. The only girl to have really piqued my interest thinks I'm no more fascinating than a common gnu.

I hope she doesn't see _Tatler_, to be honest.

_Later_

Spent the evening out in the back garden with my parents. My mother mentioned she'd heard this weekend was Edinburgh Fringe Festival. "Pam Jones is working in television now and told me she's going," she said, which surprised me; I had no idea she'd entered the work force.

I told her the party invitations were going out on the first—I figure a month's advance notice is sufficient. After a pause, she said to me, "Was there anyone else you wanted to include? Perhaps Pauline?"

I glanced over to her with what was assuredly a look of horror, and saw a smile on her face. She was taking the mickey.

"You know," she said. "Take care on Bridget's invitation. Pam tells me she's split with her beau. Turns out he was seeing someone else, poor thing."

My immediate reaction was threefold: sorry she'd been hurt; unsurprised that he couldn't remain faithful; elated that she was unattached.

"I've addressed it to her alone," I replied.

Mon, 28 Aug

Peter rang up here today, was surprised to find me there. "Just wanted to let you know we'll be there for the party, for sure."

I laughed and told him the invitations hadn't even gone out yet. This made him laugh, too.

"We'll probably get it the day we're flying out. Oh. And while I'm thinking of it, we've picked a date."

At first I had no idea what he meant, and then I realised he was talking about the date of his wedding. "Oh, that's great," I said.

"Very unoriginally, we've chosen June," he said with a laugh. "And we'll probably have it out here, so we're hoping you'll come."

Plenty of lead time. I told him I didn't think there was any reason why we wouldn't. I would happily buy airline tickets for my parents.

"And… a guest, of course," said Peter.

"Probably not," I said. I made a decision in that moment that I would not continue with N.

He was silent. "Oh," he said. "Well, that's…"

"It's good," I said. "It's better than good."

"No, that's _wonderful_," said Peter with a laugh.

With that I handed the telephone over to my mother, a smile on my own face. Sometimes your family knows what's best for you, even when you don't.

Tues, 29 Aug

Talked with N. today. Told her we can't be anything more than colleagues or friends from today forward. She said she understood, though I don't think she really believed me. Or was really listening.

Fri, 1 Sept

Today marks a year of entries.

As of today, invitations are on their way. Most invitees are within the greater London region, so I expect most people will receive them in Saturday's post. I could start getting responses back as soon as Tuesday. Have requested that responses be returned by the 15th. I do hope that Bridget comes. I have made an appalling impression in the past and I'd very much like the chance to rectify that. Have resolved that if all goes well—

Mon, 4 Sept

Have just taken new case. A murder trial. Since the defendant is foreign and her case involves… well, I was the logical choice to take this case. This will complicate my life a bit, since the trial begins in a week. I'll need to work on this whilst counting down to the party. Even if I did want to cancel, I couldn't. But I don't.

Wed, 6 Sept

Have received first handful of RSVPs. N. has offered to help as much as she can because of my involvement with the trial, and especially with the table placement for dinner. I'm afraid that is well out of my skill set.

Have reviewed everything re: case. Seems very straightforward. Strategy is clear.

Fri, 8 Sept

A week since invitations were sent. A few more have come, including from the Joneses, individually. Very awkward. That'll be a challenge to seat.

Probably an avalanche's worth will come on the 15th itself.

Sat, 9 Sept

Just a few more. The Alconburys and Enderburys. The Dalrymples (Harriet and Simon, anyway).

Mon, 11 Sept

The vicar's coming.

It's a bit ridiculous to keep checking the post for RSVPs.

Trial opened today.

Thurs, 14 Sept

I think the bulk of all RSVPs received to date arrived today. Took me forever to get them all checked in. I think there've only been one or two declines, which is lovely.

Nothing from Bridget. At least she hasn't sent in a decline.

Fri, 15 Sept

A few more, including second cousin Roger, whom I'd hoped would decline. We begin sketching out table placements this weekend.

Sun, 17 Sept

Mentally exhausting weekend of tentative table placements and working on the Rossini case. I wonder if I can set up a card table for Roger to sit at all by himself. Wish I had not sent him an invitation. Lascivious letch.

Oh, better idea. Will set him next to N.

Sat, 23 Sept

Nearly all RSVPs are accounted for: Peter and Kate (who have already given a verbal yes), and two or three I didn't reasonably expect to respond.

Disappointed.

Sun, 24 Sept

More seating arrangements. Near to final, I think. More prep work for court. Think the case is open and shut. It's quite obvious there was a great deal of duress, and she snapped.

Mon, 25 Sept

In today's post was one more RSVP. From Bridget. I was disappointed at first because I thought she was declining, but I realised she had mistakenly enclosed a page of what I can only think were practise responses. As I read through them I started to laugh out loud. Sample view:

"Miss Bridget Jones is distraught, that she will be unable…"

"Devastated does not do justice to the feelings of Miss Bridget Jones…"

"It is with great regret that we must announce that so great was Miss Bridget Jones's distress at not being able to accept the kind invitation of Mr Mark Darcy that she has topped herself and will therefore, more certainly than ever, now, be unable to accept Mr Mark Darcy's kind…"

There are several jotted-down acceptances before the final response, written out carefully in a lovely cursive—whereas all the rehearsal responses are dashed sloppily. (Hers was the only response that didn't attempt to mimic the formal, third-party invite.)

I wonder what caused her to change her mind—though whatever the cause, I'm glad she did.

Weds, 27 Sept

Mother and Father have arrived in town for the party. It pleases me greatly that they'll be able to stay with me. They love the house, though I saw my mother almost literally bite her tongue more than once. My father said, "It's a bit big for you all on your own, isn't it?" From the way Mother smacked his forearm I suspect he gave voice to her thoughts. Peter and Kate arrive tomorrow.

_Later_

While my father had a pre-dinner lie-down, my mother watched the telly in the other room whilst I read more of _The Famished Road_. She then called for me urgently. Alarmed, I tossed the book to my side and rushed in only to see, much to my bewilderment, Bridget on the screen, apparently doing a story on the Lewisham fire station. She had got a new job in television?

I was just pondering this when she went down, then up, then down the fireman's pole again (in a skirt dangerously too short for this endeavour) before landing in a heap at the feet of the fireman standing there. "And now," she said, addressing the camera with gravitas, "back to the studio."

And the segment was over.

I wondered what on earth had I just witnessed.

"Well," said my mother. "That was interesting."

"How bizarre," I muttered.

My mother laughed.

"What?" I asked.

"That's exactly how you described her after the Alconburys' summer fete," she said, "though I suppose the homemade bunny girl outfit _was_ a tad on the bizarre side."

If I had, I did not recall as such.

_Later, after dinner_

"Poor Colin," said my mother, apparently apropos of nothing, as we went walking out through the conservatory and into the back garden as the sky started to go dark. I racked my mind to think to whom she could be referring. "Coming to a ruby wedding party only to see his wife here with another man." It struck me then. Bridget's father. She looked to me. "I'm glad Bridget's coming for his moral support."

"Beautiful out here, son. You'd never know you were in the heart of London," said Father wistfully.

I think I thanked him quietly. I don't remember, exactly. I felt a little No, I'm going to write this. I felt a little wounded that she wasn't coming because I'd invited her. But she couldn't know it was my pencilling her name in at my mother's suggestion that resulted in the invitation. I should stop being ridiculous.

Thurs, 28 Sept

Very good night with Kate and Peter, and Mother and Father on their actual fortieth anniversary. Kate brought up N.'s absence, and what I'd told Peter. I guess I forgot to mention this to my mother, who tried not to look too pleased that we were no longer seeing each other outside of work. I said she'd still be coming to the party as a friend.

Harriet and Simon will also be staying here; they'll arrive on Saturday morning, and stay so that they don't have to make the drive back the same night. Not as if I don't have the room for them too.

There was one tense moment—my mother mentioned wanting to talk to me about my opinion on time-shares. I shut her down with a look, and she did not bring it up again.

Fri, 29 Sept

Spent the day setting up the decorations and finalising the table arrangement. N. dropped by to help, and wasted no time trying to ingratiate herself with me and my family. She thinks I'm spending too much time on frivolous things like the candles on the stairs. All that's left is to put the fairy lights and the strings of hearts in the trees, tomorrow afternoon. It may seem frivolous, but aren't parties by nature frivolous anyway?

The seating's perfect, if you ask me. Stroke of genius to put Pam Jones far from her beau _and_ her husband. Put Mr Jones near Harriet—she's an outrageous flirt and he'll love it. And I placed Bridget far from anyone she'd be interested in: Geoffrey Alconbury and a vicar. (I would have liked to have placed her near me, but I didn't want to be too overbearing.)

Sat, 30 Sept

_16.30_

All's ready to go. Guests should begin arriving by 18.00.

Feeling very nervous.

Sun, 1 Oct

_03.00_

An unbelievable night.


	4. Chapter 4: 1 Oct - 9 Oct

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4: 1 Oct – 9 Oct**

Sun, 1 Oct

Now I've had some time to process… it's _still_ unbelievable. I've decided to document as much of it as I can.

Most of yesterday afternoon was spent ensuring all was going smoothly, but I needn't have bothered. Natasha was there and was bossing everyone around, for which I was unexpectedly grateful. I milled around downstairs (below the ground floor) and mingled a little as guests began to arrive; crew from the caterers ushered them down, where there were hors d'oeuvres and champagne being served. I partook of a flute myself to calm my nerves.

I spotted the black dress before it registered who was wearing it, but I should have guessed it was not going to turn out to be Audrey Coles or Mavis Enderby. The dress was black, elegant, longish sleeves and had a sheen that looked to me like silk and some kind of under-skirt that caused it to flare a bit. The dress went down to about her knees and, quite frankly, looked like it was made for her; very flattering to her figure. She wore shimmery black tights and black suede shoes and looked absolutely, positively ravishing. Easily the most beautiful woman there. I knew it was going to make N. absolutely mental, and I sort of looked forward to the steam coming out of her ears.

"Who's she?" My brother, close to my side.

I felt my face blaze red. "That's Bridget." I cleared my throat quietly and turned to look at him; he was smirking. "Jones. Daughter of one of Mother's friends."

He lifted a brow. "Pretty," he said as if in summary judgment, then moved back just as the vicar came forward to thank me for inviting him. I said (as I had many times already) that it was my mother who had done so, so the thanks ultimately should go to her. Then my attention fixed on Bridget and her father again.

My parents' friends seemed stunned at the party—and it was, truthfully, quite unlike the turkey curry buffet or the summer garden barbecue at the Alconburys'. I'm afraid I may have raised the bar a little higher than they all had expected; perhaps too high, even. I only wanted to throw a nice party. I gave no thought to anything more. It hurt a little to overhear Pam Jones and Una Alconbury suggest I was doing this for show.

That's when Bridget saw me, and she nearly started when she did. She seemed to know I'd overheard the commentary (perhaps something about my expression gave it away), but I didn't really want her to talk to me only out of pity, so I walked away.

It wasn't until we queued up to sit for dinner that I saw her again, approaching the stairs; I turned and faced forward, as I was still stinging a bit from the insult. I hoped she wouldn't notice I was there. When she said "Hi" I pretended not to see her, but when she said it a second time—and poked me in the shoulder—it became pretty clear I couldn't get away with such a ruse.

"Oh, hi. I'm sorry. I didn't see you," I offered weakly.

She was smiling brightly up at me. "It's a great party. Thanks for inviting me."

For some reason I said (due to rote repetition, I'm sure), "Oh, I didn't. My mother invited you. Anyway. Must see to the, er—" I flailed. "—_placement_. Very much enjoyed your Lewisham fire station report, by the way." She looked stunned, and I took advantage of her momentary silence to follow up on my own fib; I dashed up the stairs towards the ground floor (and the dining room). Too late I noticed that N. was at the top of the stairs, dressed in her too-long gold gown, the hem of which was dangerously close to one of the candles adorning the stair. She grabbed my elbow (oh, how I wished I could have pushed her away—but there was a staircase to worry about) and turned with me.

N. then swore for the first time since I'd known her. She'd gotten red wax on her hem. As she bitched at me for paying more attention to the candles than the seating, I could only think she was lucky she hadn't actually set the dress on fire.

As we ate, my gaze kept wandering back to where Bridget sat. Placing her between Geoffrey Alconbury and the vicar seemed to not be keeping her from having a great time, which was good. Repeatedly, N. (who had placed herself across from me) would attempt to corral my attention back to her. I don't care to counter rudeness with more rudeness, so I started to just flat out ignore her. Not even Roger, whom I'd placed next to N. to keep him within my sight, wanted anything to do with N. and he usually hits on any female with a pulse.

It was at the end of the meal (a superb job by the caterer), as people started to go downstairs for socialising and dancing, that I saw Bridget nick something from the table then slip out towards the front of the house. I didn't think she was trying to steal the cutlery or anything, but I was dead curious as to why she was sneaking away from the party.

I then saw her slip into the front room, where the presents had been taken and stored after they'd been unwrapped (and documented from whom each present had come). Now, I didn't really think she was out to thief a gift, but my curiosity at this point was too piqued not to look.

She was leaning over the table, her back to me. I couldn't quite see what was happening; I thought at the time that perhaps she was trying to sniff something. Suddenly she gasped. "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"

I shifted my weight, leaned against the doorframe. "What are you doing?" She started a little at the sound of my voice and turned to face me, but didn't answer me, so I prompted, "Mmm?"

Hesitantly, she said, "The essential oil burner I bought your mother is taking in milk." I realised what she nicked from the table was a small pitcher of milk and a spoon.

I couldn't help laughing. "Oh, don't be ridiculous."

Now she looked offended. "It _is_ taking in milk. Look."

She repeated for me what she had just done outside of my view: she tipped the milk up and into a teaspoon, then turned to what looked like a terra cotta candle holder; the large opening in the front looked like a giant gaping mouth. It was in front of this 'mouth' that she placed the spoon. Astonished, I watched as the milk slowly disappeared; it was not dripping to the table. The oil burner was in fact taking on milk, though I'm sure there was some scientific explanation involving the porosity of the terra cotta.

"You see," she said with great satisfaction. "It's a miracle."

I managed quietly, "You're right. It is a miracle."

For a split-second she looked very pleased, and in that split-second I realised that the miracle was more than disappearing milk; her delighted wonder at the discovery had suddenly and radically shifted my perspective. I was lost in my thoughts for that moment, until—

"Oh, hi. Not in your bunny girl outfit today, then?"

It was N. who'd come up next to me; this was directed to Bridget, of course, followed up with a laugh as if it were nothing more than friendly banter.

Instantly Bridget came back with, "Actually we bunnies wear these in the winter for warmth."

N.'s eyes narrowed as they looked her up and down. "John Rocha?" she asked. "Last autumn? I recognise the hem."

This seemed to stump her for a moment, as it did me; context suggested she was referring to the dress. Brightly (and, I noted, completely disregarding the comment), Bridget said, "Anyway, I'm sure you're longing to circulate. Nice to see you again. Bye!"

She then made her way past us; N. backed up a step in order to allow her through. I caught a whiff of Bridget's perfume.

"What was she trying to do, steal the presents?" N. said cattily once she'd gone.

I stared wordlessly at her, wondering how I'd ever allowed myself to become personally involved with her. Then I walked away from her without deigning to acknowledge the insult, and went back downstairs.

As I approached I could immediately hear the string quartet playing, and the sound of the waltz was soothing to my frayed nerves. I looked around for Bridget, but did not see her; for a moment I thought perhaps she'd gone, but I didn't think she'd abandon her father, and he was still here, chatting amiably with my aunt Harriet, whom I'd sat next to him.

"She went into the garden."

It was Peter again, and I was beginning to wonder if he could read my mind. He stood there with Kate, who was also smiling. I glanced to the garden, saw the spark of a lighter, then the brightening orange of a cigarette tip as someone drew in the smoke.

"Well," he continued, "I saw you looking for someone, and…"

"And what?"

"You've been looking at her all night," he said, then leaned in close. "Mark, why is Natasha here? Are you seeing her again?"

"No," I said, a little too vehemently.

"So ask this Bridget out," Peter said. "You're obviously drawn to her."

"She doesn't seem to be the biting type," added Kate. "In fact, she insisted I have the last of the prawn wontons."

I thought it best to pardon myself with a quick "Thank you" (and nothing more incriminating than that), before I threaded my way through the crowd and around the dancing couples towards the doors. (I admit to a fleeting thought, a bit of surprise that we'd run through all the prawn wontons.)

When I arrived in the garden I could hardly believe my eyes:

Turning about the garden in small circles was my cousin Simon, and in his arms, dancing the waltz with him, was Bridget. I watched for a moment or two more, completely transfixed, before I spoke.

"I'll take over, now, Simon."

Bridget's eyes flashed to me. Simon looked mortified.

"Come along. Back inside. You should be in bed now."

Simon scurried away, up the stairs and back into the party; as he did I realised the true reason for his mortification, which I tried not to think too much about, as I hoped to shortly dance with Bridget myself.

"May I?" I asked. I held out a hand.

"No," she said, decidedly and firmly.

I was taken aback once more. I dropped the proffered hand. "What's the matter?"

"Um," she said, suddenly not so sure of herself. "That was a horrible thing to do to a young whippersnapper, throwing your weight about and humiliating him like that at a sensitive age." I was thinking about how to respond—particularly I was surprised she was showing concern for a boy she'd only just met—when she continued. "Though I do appreciate your asking me to your party. Marvellous. Thank you very much. Fantastic party."

Try as I might, I could not gauge the situation. "Yes. I think you've said that." I looked up at her again, and realised it was my chance to try again, but stubbornly my brain was providing me with nothing to say. "I…" I felt restless, took a few steps back and forth, ran my fingers through my hair. "How's the…" I began again, thinking of her new job, before stopping myself and remembering that she was a literary wizard. "Have you read any good books lately?"

I believe her mouth actually, literally fell open. "Mark," she said in a dangerous tone. "If you ask me once more if I've read any good books lately I'm going to eat my head. Why don't you ask me something else? Ring the changes a bit. Ask me if I've got any hobbies, or a view on the single European currency, or if I've had any particularly disturbing experiences with rubber."

My head was spinning. "I…"

"Or if I had to sleep with Douglas Hurd, Michael Howard or Jim Davidson which one I'd choose." She touched her fingers to her chin in a thoughtful manner. "Actually, no contest, Douglas Hurd."

"Douglas Hurd?" I repeated, a bit gobsmacked. The Conservative Foreign Secretary?

"Mmm. Yes. So deliciously strict, but fair."

"Hmmm," I said. "You say that, but Michael Howard's got an extremely attractive and intelligent wife. He must have some sort of hidden charms." As soon as I said it, I realised I'd unwittingly unleashed a double entendre. She picked up on it instantly, grinning as she asked:

"Like what, you mean?"

"Well…" I demurred.

"He might be a good shag, I suppose," she said offhandedly, still smirking a little.

"Or a fantastically skilful potter," I said, hoping to prove I'd had other things in mind beside sex.

"Or a qualified aromatherapist."

I thought back to earlier that evening, with the terra cotta oil burner, to the Lewisham fire station, to my brother's urging… and now we were actually talking, I knew I had to take the chance. Quite suddenly and a bit more curtly than I'd've liked, I asked, "Will you have dinner with me, Bridget?" (I mean, I'd wanted to ask like a gentleman, then she had to go and put thoughts in my head of Douglas Hurd and Michael Howard as sexual creatures. That throws a man off.)

She blinked in surprise. "Has my mum put you up to this?"

"No… I…"

"Una Alconbury?"

This was going all wrong. "No, no..."

"It's _your_ mum, isn't it?" she asked, almost as if an accusation.

"Well, my mother has…"

She interrupted. "I don't want to be asked out to dinner just because your mum wants you to. Anyway, what would we talk about? You'd just ask me if I've read any good books lately and then I'd have to make up some pathetic lie and—"

I was confused. "But Una Alconbury told me you were a sort of literary whiz-woman, completely obsessed with books."

It was her turn to look surprised. "Did she? What else did she tell you?"

I mentioned "radical feminist" and "incredibly glamorous life" and "millions of men" taking her out—the first two elicited a pleased reaction; the latter a confused "Huh"—before I thought about the one man with whom I knew she'd definitely been out. "I heard about Daniel. I'm sorry."

She pursed her lips at this. "I suppose you did try to warn me. What have you got against him, anyway?"

"He slept with my wife," I said. "Two weeks after our wedding."

I'm not sure if she thought I was taking the mickey—her look of horror suggested she believed me—and seemed about to speak when another voice sounded out:

"Markee!"

Bloody N. She'd never called me anything approaching an endearment in the time we'd spent sleeping together.

"Markee! What are you doing down there?"

I decided to get it out, as quickly as possible. "Last Christmas, I thought if my mother said the words 'Bridget Jones' just once more I would go to the _Sunday People_ and accuse her of abusing me as a child with a bicycle pump. Then when I met you… and I was wearing that ridiculous diamond-patterned jumper that Una had bought me for Christmas…." I paused to take in a steadying breath—I couldn't believe I was saying this all to her. "Bridget, all the other girls I know are so lacquered over. I don't know anyone else who would fasten a bunny tail to their pants or…"

N. was coming closer. "Mark!"

"But you're going out with somebody," she said quietly.

"I'm not any more, actually," I said emphatically. "Just dinner? Sometime?"

"Okay," she said in that equally quiet tone. "Okay."

I smiled, relieved and pleased beyond measure. I then glanced up at the retreating N. "Your number?"

I don't know if she too remembered that moment at New Years when I'd politely refused the same, out of deference to her feelings. The smile she offered in return suggested she did remember—and that perhaps I'd been totally wrong then. "Okay," she said again, then dug into her handbag. She happened to have a slip of paper and a pen, on which she hastily jotted down not only her phone number, but her address.

"How about—" I thought about the oncoming trial. "How about next Tuesday, eight in the evening? I'll pick you up."

She agreed.

The remainder of the night went by in a blur. I did not mention the planned dinner date to anyone, least of all my mother; I didn't want to jinx it. I did however speak to them about the evening, about forty years of wedded bliss. I felt very sociable about the subject just then.

As things wound down, N. approached again, cornering me in the room where the coats and wraps had been stowed. "Mark," she said. "You've been—"

I turned and set the full fury of my gaze onto N., instantly silencing her.

"What were you trying to do earlier?" I asked.

"I don't know _what_ you mean."

"You bloody well do," I said. "You and I are colleagues. I _thought_ we were friends—"

"Mark," she interrupted, attempting unsuccessfully to soften her features. I barrelled on.

"—and I thought we had an understanding that that's _all_ we were."

She drew her lips into a thin line, standing so still she looked like a statue. Satisfied I would no longer be interrupted, I continued.

"I appreciate all of your assistance with the party," I said. "It would have been very challenging to handle this all on my own, especially with the trial."

"As I've said before, we make such a good team."

I thought of a time, what felt like long ago, when I'd felt the same way. Now I could only shake my head. "You have skated on thin ice once too often. I can no longer tolerate your mean-spirited interference. I think you should leave."

She had that expression of concentration on her face that told me she was trying to comprehend what I was saying to her. She lifted her chin haughtily. I could tell she wanted to get in the last word, but knowing her, she did not want to burn any bridges. She reached for the hideous little shrug that went with her dress. "I'll just say good-bye to your mother and father and wish them well," she said at last, turned on her heel, and went to find them.

I didn't care.

I could only think: I'm having dinner with Bridget on Tuesday.

Mon, 2 Oct

Slept moderately well—therapeutic documentation of ruby wedding party, however, counteracted by the slight thrum of nerves for tomorrow's date.

Wrapping up the murder trial doesn't have me nearly as concerned as this dinner does. Elena Rossini's case is cut and dried, and the law's pretty clear. This… is far more amorphous. I hope we'll have something to talk about. I would hate to think I'm boring her rigid.

Peter took me aside on his way out the door to the airport, asked me how things had gone out there amongst the rhododendrons. I told him about the planned dinner date. He gave me a thumbs up. I didn't get a chance to ask him to keep it between himself and Kate. If my mother finds out and tells her friends… I can't bear the thought that we might be the subject of further discussion over tea.

Maybe I should bring flowers.

Tues, 3 Oct

I am the world's biggest fool.

I went to the address she'd given, rang the bell at five minutes past the prearranged time, but… nothing. Continued to ring until it became obvious I would be getting no answer. From my pocket I dug the paper she'd given me on the off-chance I'd misread the address—no, the printing was surprisingly clear as day. Then I thought maybe she had meant not today but a week from today—but no, that's a quirk that Americans say.

She could have had the courtesy to call to cancel if she'd changed her mind. I am disappointed and, yes, a little angry. If she'd never intended on meeting me for dinner then why agree in the first place?

I crumpled up the paper and shoved it deep into my jacket pocket; my pride was hurt and I was not going to rub salt in the wound by ringing her up. I tossed the flowers into a rubbish bin and went to the restaurant on my own. Didn't even have my copy of _The Famished Road_ with me.

Weds, 4 Oct

Verdict tomorrow in case. Confident in acquittal.

Thurs, 5 Oct

A day of good news, all around.

Acquittal secured as expected. Hounded for interviews despite not giving the press any warning of our exit. Ms Rossini—Elena—was released and I offered to escort her to the hotel where she is staying before she boards a plane for her native Italy at the soonest opportunity. I thought if she remained in my company that she couldn't be bullied into an interview. Once I got her in the car, however, she begged me to get her some chocolate. "Haven't had chocolate in weeks," she said, looking quite desperate. "Quality Street?" I acquiesced.

I left her in the car at the kerb outside of the shop nearest the High Court. Upon my rather rushed entrance I saw someone was in the queue at the till, sorting through change. I called to the shopkeeper, "Could you let me have a box of Quality Street?"

"Excuse me, does the word 'queue' mean anything to you?" I knew the voice, then she turned to face me, making an oddly endearing squeak at the back of her throat. I could only stand there slightly slack-jawed. It was the very woman who'd stood me up—Bridget—who (after looking at me curiously, as I was still in my barrister garb) then asked rather defensively, "Where in the name of arse were you last night?"

"I might ask the same question of you," I said, still residually angry with her.

At that moment a rather burly looking man came in. "Bridget!" this fellow yelled. "We've missed the interview. Elena Rossini's come out and gone. Did you get my Minstrels?"

She looked horrified, leaning against the counter. "Missed it?" she said in a panicky voice. "Missed it? Oh God. This was my last chance after the fireman's pole and I was buying sweets. I'll be sacked." She turned to the burly man. "Did the others get interviews?"

I stepped in. "Actually, nobody got any interviews with her."

She looked up at me with wide blue eyes; I felt my anger with her over the date dissipating. "Didn't they? But how do you know?"

"Because I was defending her," I said matter-of-factly, "and I told her not to give any." I pointed out to the street. "Look, she's out there in my car."

As she did, I noticed that Elena had put down the car window. Now she called out to me, "Mark, sorry. You bring me Dairy Box, please, instead of Quality Street?"

A camera crew pulled up and called to the burly man (Derek was his name, apparently) for some sweets. I took the opportunity to get to the bottom of the date fiasco: "So where were you last night?"

"Waiting for bloody _you_," she said under her breath.

"What, at five past eight?" I enquired, as if back in the courtroom, engaging her gaze. "When I rang on your doorbell twelve times?"

"Yes, I was…" She trailed off, looking increasingly pale. "…drying my hair."

"Big hairdryer?" I asked, realising what a comedy of errors had actually occurred.

"Yes," she said; "1600 volts, Salon Selectives. Why?"

I began to laugh. "Maybe you should get a quieter hairdryer or begin your toilette a little earlier. Anyway. Come on." She looked puzzled. "Get your cameraman ready; I'll see what I can do for you."

I made a quick decision to divert us to my office in chambers, and told Bridget and her "Good Afternoon!" camera crew to follow close behind. I explained to Elena as we made the short trip. She looked confused and a little betrayed, as I had been so adamant against interviews.

"It'll be all right," I said, feeling a sinking pit in my stomach—bloody irresponsible and unprofessional, giving an interview because I fancied the interviewer. What if it turned into a disaster?

I took a seat next to Elena at her request; after all, I was her legal advocate and friend. Bridget had jotted a few questions down, which she reviewed before signalling she was ready to begin; I suddenly panicked and thought that maybe I should have asked to see the questions in advance. After a few false starts the interview got underway. I needn't have worried. The type of questions I was expecting were exactly the sort of questions she did _not_ ask. Nothing about the intolerable situation in which she'd had to live, all alone in a foreign country; no inquiries into the events of that night. Instead, with immense sympathy and sincere kindness, Bridget asked how she was doing, how she was feeling about being free again (and how it felt to be vindicated), what her plans were for the future and whether her opinion of the UK overall was unchanged from when she'd first arrived on our shores, after what had happened.

"No, no, I have met Mr Darcy and so many people who are kind—they are the real UK." Elena smiled. "And now you, Ms Jones."

"Oh, please call me Bridget," she said.

"Then you must call me Elena."

Bridget's final question was, to my great surprise, directed towards me, rousing me from my reverie. "And Mr Darcy," she said, pointing the microphone in my direction, "what might you say to those people who thought the verdict was unjust?"

"The evidence supports her account," I said automatically; I then willed myself to snap out of barrister-lecture mode. "It was strong evidence and enough to convince a court and a jury. That should be good enough for anyone else."

"And Elena?" Bridget asked.

Given what I knew of Elena's patient temperament (an absolute necessity to be a nanny) I shouldn't have worried about what she'd say, but the truth was, I did, at least a little. "I feel very bad that they can't see the truth. I hope that someday they will understand that the verdict was just."

Bridget nodded.

"But I don't wish them ill," Elena said. "Just peace and happiness."

Bridget turned back to the camera with a beaming smile. "This is Bridget Jones for "Good Afternoon!' And now, back to the studio."

The lights went down and the cameraman began to pack up, signalling that the interview was done. Bridget sighed with relief, sinking back into the chair. "Wow," she said. "Total grace under pressure. In your place I'd've wanted to tell them all to go fuck themselves."

The room fell silent. Bridget looked mortified, at least until Elena began to laugh. Then I did. Then the crew did too. As the crew finished packing up, Bridget thanked me again for the opportunity to interview Elena. I realised in that moment that, as much as I dearly wished to ask her if she'd like to make up that dinner date, it was not the time or the place. I did not want to ask in front of her colleagues, but more importantly, I didn't want her to accept only in gratitude for the exclusive interview.

"It was my pleasure," I said before I showed them all out. Elena and I then went back to the car.

"She was very nice," Elena said as we drove to her hotel. "So friendly and genuine. Not like other reporters." Probably, I thought, because she's so new at it. She furrowed her brow. "You don't suppose she will twist my words?"

I shook my head. "I think we can trust her," I said. "That's the only reason I allowed it. We knew each other as children."

"Oh! You're friends!"

I smiled a little. "Yes," I said, though in reality we were barely acquaintances.

After getting Elena settled in at the hotel I told her I'd call her tomorrow, I went back down to the car and told the driver to take me home.

Fri, 6 Oct

The interview seems to have become the talk of chambers, a side effect I had failed to take into consideration. Most of it was good-natured teasing over my apparent abandonment of the 'no interviews' policy; Giles commented to me that he thought the interview was a wise decision, as it really humanised the whole case. Natasha, on the other hand, looked at me with a sort of disgust, and she made no effort to hide it.

"So the bunny girl gets the exclusive," she said. "What did she give you in exchange? You must have been looking forward to it a _great_ deal."

Her comment made me furious, but Giles stepped in: "I've no idea what you're going on about, but that gal was smashing. Totally the right person for the job. She handled it exactly as I would have wanted it handled."

I snuck a glance at Natasha. She said nothing more, just sniffed haughtily and walked away. I was certain at that moment that had she not been in Giles' presence she might have been a lot more vulgar.

I would be proven correct in very short order. After a few minutes I returned to my office and found that Natasha had preceded me there, arms folded across her chest.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

"It's obvious why I'm here, Mark," she seethed. "If you continue with this, you'll make a fool of yourself at the very least, and at the worst, get in trouble with—"

I could hold back no more and interrupted her with the most restrained bellow I could manage. "Are you seriously continuing to suggest that I gave Bridget the interview in exchange for sex?"

"I saw the way you looked at her. At the book launch, the party, and your parents' ruby wedding," she retorted, moving her hands to her hips. "While she looked like she couldn't be bothered to give you the time of day… and suddenly, she asks for a favour. A little tit for tat isn't outside the realm of possibility, if you wanted to get in her pants—"

The gloves were off now; however, I neither owed her an explanation, nor did she deserve one. I interrupted once more, in a cool, professional tone: "If you ever insinuate again that I improperly solicited sexual favours for exclusive media access, I will proceed as I would with any other case of slander… and ensure you are drummed out of chambers."

She said nothing; her face went deep crimson, then she stormed past me and out of my office. Good riddance, I thought.

Sat, 7 Oct

_12.30_

Cannot sleep. I don't know why I take any stock in anything that bloody woman says to me, but maybe, in this case… maybe N.'s right. Maybe the hairdryer was just something she said because she was too embarrassed to admit she'd changed her mind—or because she'd been too nice to refuse in the first place.

I shall try instead to think of the staggering implications of the discovery of the first planet outside of our solar system, announced today (well, the 6th). Again… perspective.

Mon, 9 Oct

Spent the weekend making arrangements for Elena to return home. I met her at the hotel very early this morning and rode with her in the car to the airport to see her off. I told her to keep in touch, and wished her all the best. Fortunately, there was no press there to make a scene—I think the departure was so sudden there wasn't time for anyone to find out, plus… there's not really a story anymore. Thank goodness.

The rest of the day was tedious and trying. One of those literary adaptations of the classics that Natasha derided so much so many months ago is evidently airing on Sunday nights lately on BBC One. I overheard her speaking on the telephone about it (not intentionally eavesdropping… when I hear what I think is my name, I pay attention). I felt like asking her if she has read the book, but I have no desire to engage her in conversation, especially when she seemingly has chosen to pretend I don't exist.

Seems to be the fashion to do so.


	5. Chapter 5: 14 Oct - 20 Dec

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 5: 14 Oct – 20 Dec**

Fri, 14 Oct

Went to the football today in the company of Giles. It was the first match in London since August. (Voice is a bit hoarse from shouting.) Newcastle seems poised already to win the league. Only one tie and one loss since pre-season began. Very pleased at the prospect—though it shouldn't be too surprising, with the investments that have been made.

Another match on 21st but in Newcastle. Too far to drive, obviously. Giles seems keen on the match, too. He seems in need of distraction lately.

Sat, 15 Oct

Went to drinks party for a bit to get my mind off of things. The host was an acquaintance from my uni days and another barrister, William "Barky" Thompson, into whom I had run unexpectedly while leaving the match. I thought it might be nice to get out there and socialise professionally. Given how much I typically dislike this sort of thing, and despite there being loads of people that I didn't know, I had a nice time.

Mon, 16 Oct

I will be bloody _thrilled_ when that miniseries is over.

Thurs, 19 Oct

I was checking the pockets of my suit jackets before taking them to be cleaned, and I found the balled-up piece of paper with Bridget's phone number and address on it. Twice tonight I reached for my telephone, only to hesitate at the last moment. I really don't want to seem desperate.

Sat, 21 Oct

The pub near Giles' place had on the game, and it really was a perfect re-creation of the atmosphere at the match itself. We had a rousing good time, especially since NU racked up another win (though it was close). Giles even seemed happy for a bit; hope whatever's troubling him eases up soon. He's been a good friend.

After a pint or two he surprised me by asking me if I was seeing anyone. I told him I was not. "Thought you had a date," he said.

I chuckled. I might have mentioned the slated dinner with Bridget. "No, I didn't end up having one." I told him the story and at the end of it he guffawed.

"She sounds… interesting," he said at last.

I decided to ask for his opinion on whether he thought she'd made it up.

"Veronica's got the same model hairdryer," he said. "You could sound an air raid siren and not hear it over that thing's motor." He grinned. "I think there's a ring of truth to it, and it would be a strange thing to make up on the spot."

I felt suddenly emboldened. Maybe she _was_ waiting for me to ask again. When Giles went off to the loos, I pulled out my portable phone (which I usually only use for work) and punched in the number I had somehow managed to memorise. It rang for a bit before the answerphone went on. I closed the phone without saying a thing, though. I didn't know what to say—and she was probably out with her friends or some other man. I didn't really expect her to sit around waiting for my call, did I?

Sun, 29 Oct

Another match today here in London, NU v. Tottenham Hotspur. Both Giles and Nigel came to the stadium with me. We had a rousing good time, even if the match ended in a tie.

I understand that tonight is the last part of that mini. Thank God.

Weds, 1 Nov

I spoke to my mother today; she called because she was worried that I hadn't called in a couple of weeks. I told her I'd been busy and I apologised. Glad to see the end of October, though. While it was not a bad month, it had just started out with such promise.

Have accepted an invitation to Barky Thompson's Bonfire Night drinks party on Sunday. It seems a bit unlike me, but I would rather not spend such a festive night alone. Apparently he has one of these on the last Monday of every month now, but not December, due to the holidays. Good to keep in mind, if I'm feeling sociable.

Sat, 4 Nov

Five-a-side this morning, outside, in the brisk air. Refreshing, nice change of pace from the regular squash matches and the running (which I have taken up again, in the mornings before work). It's been good to get such regular physical activity.

Mon, 6 Nov

I should mention that work actually has been busy yet at the same time appallingly boring. Not sure how both can be true, but there is it. I guess a murder defence is a hard act to follow.

I do have an explanation for Giles' odd behaviour at last, though. He told me as we had lunch today that he was having marital difficulties with his wife. She'd gone to stay with her sister for a little while. "It's just a little thing," he said. "I'm not worried." His behaviour and distraction over the last few weeks suggest otherwise. I hope it turns out well.

I did not stay long at the drinks party. Had nice conversation with pleasant girl called Heather, but I found myself unexpectedly wanting solitude when the firecrackers started going off.

Thurs, 9 Nov

A pleasant surprise tonight. Shortly after I arrived home, my telephone rang. To my astonishment, it was Bridget, inviting me to a dinner party at her flat on the 21st. I wondered if it was her birthday—surely it would have been a strange coincidence so near to my own—but she said her birthday was in March, and that this was no special occasion. She just wanted to entertain at her place.

"What are you going to cook?" I asked. "Are you good at cooking?"

"Oh, you know…" she said. I did not. "Actually, I usually use Marco Pierre White. It's amazing how simple it can be if one goes for a concentration of taste."

The statement struck me as funny, a parroting of something she'd read somewhere. I laughed a little. "Well, don't do anything too complicated. Remember everyone's coming to see _you_, not to eat parfaits in sugar cages."

She didn't say anything for a moment. "Oh," she said at last, almost sheepishly, "Thanks." She sounded more like her usual self. Well, her usual self, embarrassed.

"So how have you been?" I asked, finding my courage. "Your parents are well?"

I heard her laugh a little. "They're as mad as ever," she said. "My mother's still seeing that Julio person. Dad's staying with the Alconburys, and is coping as best he can." She paused. "And you? Oh, how about Elena Rossel… Russi… oh, I'm terrible with names. I'm sorry."

I chuckled again. "I'm fine," I said, "and it's Rossini."

"Sorry," she said again.

I then briefly told her about getting Elena safely back to her family, which she was happy to hear. "Oh," she said. "Do you need my address again?"

I told her I did, because I didn't want to admit I still had that paper with her number from the party. I felt a bit embarrassed that I hadn't tried to call aside from the aborted effort in the pub.

"See you then, then," she said.

I was in an inordinately good mood for the remainder of the evening, and very much looking forward to the 21st.

Thurs, 16 Nov

Charges of genocide brought by the UN against Karadžić and Mladic for the Bosnian War. A welcome measure of justice.

Tues, 21 Nov

I heard on the news this morning that an agreement's being signed today to end the Bosnian War. Surely this is a good omen, an end to hostilities (or at least misunderstandings) between Bridget and me at the dinner party tonight.

Intend on bringing some champagne. Maybe chocolates, too. Briefly considered flowers but I don't wish to wear my heart on my sleeve that apparently.

Weds, 22 Nov

What a day. What a _disaster_. I am exhausted, and lucky if I slept two hours since I left Bridget's last night.

I should clarify that the dinner party, while it had its problems, was very casual and quite pleasant and not at all a disaster. Most of said problems were culinary in nature—blue soup (bland but not bad; I did not ask why it was blue), fairy-liquid-laced tomato velouté (which we did not eat). But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I arrived shortly after eight to a flat that was very cosy and warm. I felt immediately welcome and comfortable in her place, one I realised suited her very well. I saw no hint of untouchable designer furniture or elaborate window treatments, but rather, a mishmash of styles and colours, and curious objects of obvious meaning adorning shelves on which there were actual books; as a consequence the flat seemed like a place in which one would actually want to _live_, rather than a cold showroom. (I did, however, wonder a little about the lonely jade plant sitting by itself in the south-west corner.) The champagne and chocolates were a big hit. I was quite surprised to see that one of Bridget's friends, Jude, I had already met; she is head of investments from my bank. Her boyfriend was an utter arse, though, and I'm not sorry I embarrassed him in front of everyone in asking about his non-existent job, if I have to be totally honest.

During the course of the dinner party, as we spoke of careers, life and current events (like Rabin's assassination, and the horrific Rosemary West trial and imminently expected verdict), it became obvious that she and her friends, as odd and varied as they were, were like a family unto themselves. Though I never for a moment felt excluded, I was definitely outside of it all, like Attenborough observing wildlife on one of his nature programmes. Bridget herself was a charming (if harried) hostess, warm, funny, self-deprecating, and (to my delight) showing no trace of antagonism towards me.

As the last of the dinner plates were cleared from the table post-dessert, the telephone rang, and for a modicum of privacy she went to take it in the back of the flat (at the time I supposed it must have been her bedroom). As the minutes went on and she did not reappear, the lot of us became concerned. Jude ventured back with a glass of Grand Marnier as we waited with bated breath. A few more minutes later, Jude returned to the room, fixed her gaze on me and asked, "Mark, will you come back here please?"

Never had words like this sounded so horrible and ominous. I immediately followed, saw Bridget looking completely ashen and distraught, sitting on the bed and staring into the middle distance. I asked, "What's wrong?"

She looked up at me with wide eyes. "My mother and Julio are wanted by the police. He's a con man who's swindled lots of money out of—" Her voice cracked. Jude took over the explanation.

"He used Bridget's mother to get close to her friends," she said in the same sort of voice I was used to hearing at the bank: calm, even, collected. "He took deposits for time-shares that don't exist, and the pair of them are now on the run."

"My dad says he's left with nothing," said Bridget. "Your parents…"

I felt as if the room swayed around me, and I ran my fingers back through my hair. That day at the garden party at the Alconburys'—the overheard mobile phone conversation—how stupid I'd been to ignore it. "I blame myself," I said. "I should have made myself more clear at the Tarts and Vicars party. I knew there was something dodgy about Julio."

Jude looked confused at the mention of tarts and vicars. Bridget asked, looking more like herself, "What do you mean?"

"I heard him talking on his portable phone by the herbaceous border. He didn't know he was being overheard. If I'd had any idea that my parents were involved I'd…" I trailed off, shaking my head, recalling that conversation with my mother just before the ruby wedding party. "Now I think about it, I do remember my mother mentioning something, but I got so aerated at the mere mention of the words 'time-share' that I must have terrorised her into shutting up." I looked to Bridget again. "Where's your mother now?"

"I don't know," she said, despair in her voice; I so wanted to take her hand, give her a hug, something to console her, but I dared not. "Portugal? Rio de Janeiro? Having her hair done?"

This was bad. This was very, very bad. I started to pace around and fire off a number of questions to no one in particular and not really expecting answers; thinking out loud helps me when I get a new case, and I was starting to consider this in terms of one: "What's being done to find her?", "What are the sums involved?" and so on; I then turned my attention back to Bridget. "Where is your father now? Would you like to go to him?" She looked slightly stunned, and nodded. "Will you allow me to take you?" She nodded again.

Jude came back into the room with a cup of coffee for each of us, which was amazing since I hadn't even noticed she'd gone. "Thank you," I said, then took a sip. "I'll ring up my driver. We'll go up to Grafton Underwood as soon as possible."

For the first time since I'd entered the room, she offered me the smallest hint of a smile. I pulled out my phone and called for the car, which the driver quoted a time of twenty minutes. This gave Bridget time to pack an overnight bag; I left the bedroom to allow her the privacy to do so. I returned to where we had been enjoying ourselves only a half-hour before to find her other friends tidying everything up, putting away uneaten food, washing up the dishes, in an almost eerie silence. "Jude told us what's going on," said Tom quietly, as if someone had died.

The ride was mostly a silent one. She still looked a bit shell-shocked, and I was busy organising my thoughts on how to handle this. Who to call, for a start; it would be fairly late by the time we got to the Alconburys' home, but I could at least make a start.

In true hostess form, Una had prepared little sandwiches and poured some cream sherries for all of us. I made some calls trying to sort out exactly who was handling jurisdiction, whether or not they had any idea where the pair were, but I did not get very far. After all of this, I realised I could accomplish more whilst in my office in London, so I bid them goodnight at about two in the morning, and left Bridget to spend the night surrounded by her family (well, her father and the Alconburys, anyway).

I hope she (and they) were able to get some sleep in the interim. I tried to doze on the drive back but was unsuccessful. I stopped at home briefly for a shower, a shave and a change of clothes, then went to my office and the considerable resources there. I made contact with the police to offer any assistance and find out what I could. They told me they had issued arrest warrants but that they believed the pair had fled to the continent, to Portugal specifically. I then made contact with an old friend in the British consulate in Portugal. He said he would do his best on his end—it was possible that they had slipped into the country before the police or customs agents in Portugal had been alerted.

Much of my day between actual case work was spent playing telephone tag. When I got home far too late, I was exhausted and hungry, so I rang up for takeaway delivery. I noticed as I made the call that I had a message on my answerphone. It was Bridget, thanking me for everything, though I didn't feel I'd done much of anything. Now that I've eaten I'm going to try to get some sleep. I'll ring her back when I have something tangible to report.

Fri, 24 Nov

_Lisbon, Portugal_

Landed shortly after 16.30. Met up with consulate friend David as well as the police. They had good information placing them in Albufeira, but due to jurisdictional issues the Lisbon police can't act on it, and the Albufeira police won't without something more solid. I'll spend the night here then head for the south first thing.

It's beautiful here, very warm and sunny; so very different from London right now, which was grey and raining when I departed. I'm reminded last year of my 'wish I'd booked a sunny holiday' comment for the Christmas season—a perfect destination. The only thing that would improve this place would be if I weren't alone.

Sat, 25 Nov

_Albufeira, Portugal_

After breakfast with David, we drove down to Albufeira (it had been too late yesterday to secure a rental car, and I did not want to wait until they opened shop this morning). We went directly to the police station to touch base with the local authorities, who said they had been expecting me (much to my surprise—the police in Lisbon must have told them I was coming). I told them it was imperative they get a car out to pick up the pair of them before they realised the authorities were on to them, reminded them that there was a warrant out for their arrest, so reluctantly they radioed out to patrol. They went to the address the Lisbon police had provided. Shortly thereafter, a loudly complaining Pam Jones was brought into the station, flanked by two hulking policemen.

"He _just_ went out for a packet of cigarettes, durr. I don't know what you're going on about. You're all being ridiculously silly," she said, then spotted me. "Mark Darcy! What on earth are you doing here?"

"A lot of people are out of a lot of money," I said to her. "How long ago did he go out for cigarettes?"

She looked very thoughtful. "Oh, I suppose a few hours ago now, but he is very particular about his ciggies," she said with a little laugh and an Una-Alconbury-style flutter of her hand.

My heart sunk. I was sure Julio had abandoned Pam Jones to save himself.

The police interrogated her for about an hour. I insisted on observing in capacity as legal counsel. It became very evident very quickly that Pam believed they were just on holiday. "There's just so much paperwork to do," she said. "Getting time-shares built, you have to have all of your ducks in a row, money has to change hands, and no one is ever happy."

"So why did you leave so quickly?" the police inspector asked. I wondered myself, thinking of the story Bridget had told me in the car to Grafton Underwood, where her mother had frantically called asking for a 'couple hundred quid' for her holiday, so they'd met at a cashpoint.

"It all happened so suddenly," she said. "He found out there'd be a meeting and if he'd missed it, everything he'd done so far would have been for naught." She looked sincere, and her faith in Julio was unwavering. "You can just ask him when he gets back," she said brightly. "Arrest warrant, durr, I don't know. It's all a silly misunderstanding."

With a warrant for the premises and her cooperation—"Well, if you must know, he hasn't had time to deposit a thing; we've been far too busy"—an attaché case was recovered. The police logged and counted it under my watchful gaze; it was a little more than a third of the amount I understood to be involved.

"Where's the rest?" I asked Pam, my temper flaring.

"Well, I don't know, I'm sure," she said. "He only had this with him to pay one of the developers. You'll just have to ask him."

"Is it in a bank here? In England?"

"I just told you," she said impatiently, "we hadn't deposited a thing."

I gave up trying to talk to her at this point; the police made arrangements to get her back to the custody of the London police, and I rang up Bridget's number, which didn't connect correctly on the first try.

"Hello?" I heard her voice, faint and crackly.

"Bridget, it's me. Mark."

I like to think she was pleased to hear from me, but it was far more likely she was happy I had somewhat good news to impart. I told her that the police had her mother and that she'd be home that night, that it seemed pretty clear her mother was not knowingly involved with any scam, and that we'd gotten back some of the money.

"Don't worry about anything," I said. "If it comes down to bail, I've already made some arrangements for that." The line went silent. As I waited for a reply, I realised the connection had dropped. Before I had a chance to ring back again, one of the investigators needed to question me for the record; off the record, however, they seemed very grateful for my assistance.

Mon, 27 Nov

_01.00_

Another busy day. I learned that Pam was released without being charged (back in London) shortly after I discovered Julio had been taken into custody. After intense questioning, they determined that the intent to defraud was at best circumstantial, so Julio has agreed to return the money and never to step foot in the UK again; in exchange, on David's authority as a representative from the embassy, the UK will not pursue extradition, which could take years and amount to nothing.

I rang up the Alconburys and asked to speak to Mr Jones. I let him know that a deal had been made, what the details were, and that some of the money had already been recovered. The tone of his voice at the end of the conversation was leaps and bounds improved over the start. He had hope again.

I'm pleased, I guess, that this seems to have straightened out with little in the way of complications, and that my parents (and Bridget's) will get their money back… but there's a part of me that wants him punished with more than just a stern warning of 'don't come back to Britain.' It hardly seems just.

Heading back to London in the morning.

Thurs, 30 Nov

I heard from the inspector in Albufeira this evening that Julio did not meet up as agreed with the police and David in order to turn over the remainder of the funds. When they went to the address at which Julio had been staying, he had clearly vacated the premises. They're looking for him now. I reminded the inspector that if he has broken the agreement then everything else (including extradition) is back on the table.

They said they would let me know.

Fri, 1 Dec

As the police there in Portugal investigate Julio's whereabouts, I decided to do some investigating here in London using my contacts in law enforcement. I have made a disturbing discovery. It would seems a similar scheme was perpetrated two years ago in Birmingham by a foreign individual (believed to be from Portugal or western Spain) called Julian Cardona, in which paperwork was signed, money was exchanged, and the time-share apartments in question (this time, in Faro, just to the east of Albufeira) did not exist. No such building, no such address, no such street; in fact, the address, if it existed, would have been in the middle of the ocean. Charges were filed here in the UK, but Julian was never apprehended.

Julio Amaral? Julian Cardona? The first names and the circumstances seem too close to be mere coincidence. I'm looking for any photos to link the two.

Mon, 4 Dec

After confirming that Julio and Julian are one in the same (thank goodness for cooperation between the London and Birmingham police; the latter sent photographs), I'm back in Albufeira. There's only so much I can do from a distance, so I'm going to do so some searches in the public records here and see what I can find.

It seems that Julio is in fact his real first name, but unclear whether his family name is either of the two we now know of, or a third that is unknown.

Thurs, 7 Dec

With the help of the police and some friendly locals to assist me with the language, I have determined that the man we're after is a Portuguese citizen by the name of Juliano Amaral Cardona (not what I'd call a criminal mastermind, this one; I suppose I should be very grateful). I have obtained a copy of an older passport application and it's definitely him. He may be in either Lisbon (where it's easy to get lost in a crowd) or possibly Funchal (where it's reported a sister or aunt may be living). There is a high level of confidence that he is still within Portugal's borders, lying low.

Despite this being not the best of circumstances, I can't help commenting again that it's beautiful here. I will definitely keep this in mind for future holiday travel. I'm even getting a little brown, though I'm in desperate need of a haircut. It's nearly touching my collar now.

Sat, 16 Dec

A lot of nothing, and now something. I have had word from the police that a man meeting Julio's description was involved in a minor bar fight in Funchal. I am going now to rent a vehicle to drive to the town.

_Later_

I should have done a bit more research regarding where the town is: on the island of Madeira, off the south-west shore of Portugal. The man at the auto rental shop did his best to hide his laughter when I told him I needed to drive to Funchal, but I could hardly blame him for being amused at my foolishness. There's not been a ferry in some time and it's not recommended to try to sail, he said (as if I could).

He suggested I book a plane out of Faro, which I'm planning on doing first thing on Monday.

I feel a bit bad for neglecting everything back at home, despite calling Giles at work with some regularity (everything seems to be under control). My portable phone doesn't work here, and the phone lines here are dodgy at best, so I'm hard to reach if an emergency arises. I laugh at myself for being completely unprepared for the Christmas holiday given what I said last year about people who are unprepared for the Christmas holiday. It's fewer than ten days away, but feels a lifetime with the near-tropical weather here (I hear it is very cold in England right now). I stop and ask myself why I'm even bothering to do this, but then I remember the look on Bridget's face when she got that call, remember that I might have prevented it all had I confronted Julio in the garden or made the connection when my mother mentioned a time-share… it is my _duty_ to do this. I must make it right, or at the very least, recover the money.

(I must admit—there is also a small part of me that's enjoying the adventure of it all. By the same token, I intend on being home for the holidays to have a glass of mulled wine by the hearth.)

Weds, 20 Dec

_Funchal, Autonomous Region of Madeira, Portugal_

After a day and a half of searching, I finally found the bounder and confronted him. At first he denied knowing who I was, denied he was who I said he was, and closed the door in my face. I went around the corner, waited a little while then doubled back and monitored the door of the house. I saw a woman who looked strikingly like Julio—I would have to guess sister, not aunt—return not twenty minutes later with a basket full of fish. As she opened the door I called out as to whether Juliano was home, in what I'm sure was appallingly broken Portuguese.

"Yes, let me get him." She called into the house, called for him. He came to the door, and the moment he saw me he scowled.

"You and I need to talk, Julio," I said darkly.

Seeing that I was not going to leave without some conversation, he invited me in, asked his sister to get us some port. I declined. I needed to keep a level head.

To cut a long story short, there was nothing I could say that would convince him to return the funds. He admitted to having stashed them in a bank (as I suspected he must have done by now, even though the police have found nothing) but would not say where, which bank, or under whose name. As we went back and forth—me demanding calmly, he refusing with a rapidly escalating temper—the tiny seed of an idea began to germinate in my mind.

After about twenty minutes of this, I let out an extended exhale.

"I obviously have no jurisdiction over you," I said, "and not even the Portuguese government can touch you." He smiled smugly at me—even though I wasn't sure it was completely true. "I had hoped to restore the money to at least Pam, so she and Colin could spend their golden years in comfort."

"What?" he said, half disbelief, half roar. "Pamela is with that man?"

"Well, of course," I said, then added, again not even sure if it were true, "She's told him her fling meant nothing, that Colin was the only man she ever loved… so they're back together, and happily so. For now they are back in their home, but come the new year…. This may be the last Christmas holiday they spend there."

His face was as red as a beetroot. "Liar!"

"I wish I were lying," I said, deliberately pretending to mistake that he was talking about the house: "Their financial situation is very dismal, however. Very sad. But the bright spot is that they have one another."

"Get out!" he said, then shouted what I presumed were vulgarities in Portuguese, given his sister's reaction as she came into the room with another port for him.

I left. It was not until the vase of flowers came sailing out the through the glass of the window behind me, showering the pavement with a rain of shards, that I appreciated the depths of his temper, and wondered if irritating his jealousy had been the best idea.

I know it's a gamble, but I was then and am now sure that his jealousy's the only way he can be lured back to Britain.


	6. Chapter 6: 24 Dec - 1 Jan

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

Just a reminder: this is book-canon-based; specifically, the UK edition. It is also taking place in that time period, not the present. This will be more evident in future chapters. :)

* * *

**Chapter 6: 24 Dec – 1 Jan**

Sun, 24 Dec

_Lisbon_

Leaving for London late tonight. The airlines have been completely booked and I'm going to be cutting it close. Fortunately I was able to bunk at David's place for a few days; the hotels were booked for the Christmas holiday. I brought him up to speed on the Julio situation and we agreed that we should _not_ raise the alarm at the airports because we want him to be on UK soil when he's apprehended, not bounced at the border back to Portugal.

Rang my mother from David's to tell her not to worry, and to let her know of my plans. Told her I'd be back in the UK tomorrow but not sure when I'd see them.

Mon, 25 Dec

Happy Christmas.

It's _very_ early morning—still-dark early, though at this time of the year that's not a surprise—and I'm in the car leaving Gatwick. I wanted to take a moment to note that I saw Julio in the arrivals terminal, heading for the duty-free shop. Glad he did not see me. He looked dishevelled and unshaved. I can only speculate but he must have simmered for a few days before deciding to return, possibly directly from the island. I know there are flights from Funchal directly to Gatwick, as I had looked into booking one of those flights myself. (How he managed to get one is beyond me, but I suspect it involved a bribe.)

I am having the driver take me directly to Grafton Underwood, and to the Jones family home; I'll also alert the authorities (Kettering? Yes, probably) that he's likely to turn up there.

Have just rung. They will meet me there.

Tues, 26 Dec

Back home in Holland Park at last. It has been a very interesting 36 hours, and my time within these pages will be brief. I'm still walking about in a daze over the revelatory nature of the events of Christmas Day, which have stretched well into today.

The true epiphany occurred yesterday in the posh environs of Hintlesham Hall. I am grateful that I was able to phone ahead and secure a reservation for Christmas lunch and tentatively a suite; after all of that stressful detective work, I thought a bit of pampering was in order. I was also grateful in that moment for name recognition both from the Rossini case and from _Tatler_'s special feature in August. Finally, I was grateful for my driver (who will be paid handsomely, rest assured) because it meant that I did not have to try to focus on the road.

I could, instead, focus on the woman who'd chosen to join me. But I'm getting ahead of myself once again.

After leaving Gatwick, I arrived to the Jones' (well, at a discreet distance) at half nine, where I found a car already waiting, tucked behind a hedge. The occupants identified themselves as police from Kettering, and they said they'd seen nothing yet. After coordinating with them and telling them they were friends of my family, I made my way through said hedge to take a perch at the edge of the back garden, which would give me a leg up if he approached the house from that side (the police were watching the front). I could clearly see the large expanse of windows at the back, including the French windows.

I could also see the house had come to life with Christmas morning activity; the Alconburys arrived just after ten. I imagined that inside they were unwrapping presents and having breakfast. I saw Colin Jones pass by the window dressed in a paper crown and a comfy old cardigan, and I found myself smiling. I'd been right on that count, anyway.

Minutes continued to pass. Nothing happened. I was so wound up I wouldn't have even noticed if I was hungry, though I was grateful at least for the coffee and pastry the driver had obtained for me at my request. I'm sure I should have been chilled too, as I was wearing what I'd put on for the more Mediterranean climate of Portugal, but I did not take notice of that, either. One thing I did notice was Bridget as she passed back and forth in front of the window. She looked troubled.

I paced around just beyond the garden, taking care to stay well back and out of sight, though I'm certain that they were so engaged with holiday morning celebration (and, I'm sure, preparation of the Christmas lunch had begun well before dawn) that they would hardly notice me.

It was so quiet I heard the approach of another vehicle well down the road before it slowed and came to a stop just on the street beyond the Jones' house. I crouched down even lower. My heart was pounding and I felt like a nervous wreck; I never would have been cut out to do this sort of work on a long-term basis. I felt though that everything would be ending soon, one way or another.

From my safe distance, I then watched (to my horror) an obviously inebriated Julio (looking even more mussed than he had that morning) stagger around and towards the French windows; I recognised the sherry bottle in his hand by its shape. I thought of running to intercept him, but with no hesitation he pushed open the doors and burst into the house. I could hear him say: "You sleep with my woman." I dared not move. After an extremely brief exchange (probably along the same lines, but I couldn't quite hear it), I watched (in equal horror) Julio bound up a staircase, followed by Bridget's mother.

At that moment I began to make my way across the garden towards the French windows. As I got near I saw that Bridget was looking directly at me, shock evident on her lovely face.

"Everyone keep completely still and quiet, as if everything is normal," I said in a hushed tone as I came inside. Everyone seemed to be in a state of shock, actually; I felt the need to take the reins.

"Mark," Bridget whispered, holding the gravy boat in her hands. "What are you saying? There is no normal."

"I'm not sure whether Julio's violent," I said. "The police are outside. If we can get your mum to come downstairs and leave him up there they can go in and get him."

She smiled confidently. "OK. Leave it to me." She then went over to the bottom of the stairs, and called, "Mum! I can't find any savoury doilies."

Nothing.

"Try again," I whispered.

"Get Una to take the gravy back into the kitchen," she said, and I went and had Una do just that. I then turned and gave her a thumbs-up. She did the same back to me. Then she cleared her throat and shouted, "Mum? Do you know where the sieve is? Una's a bit worried about the gravy."

It was sheer genius—Bridget knows her mother all too well. Pam Jones came racing down the stairs, her cheeks high in colour. "The savoury doilies are in the savoury doily holder on the wall, you silly willy. Now. What's Una done with this gravy. Durr! We're going to have to use the Magimix!"

Amidst my fleeting thoughts that Bridget must have been adopted, the police went racing up the stairs. Now there were more than just the initial two, and they must have come around into the back garden behind me without my notice. We heard a clatter, an obvious scuffle from above; Mrs Jones yelled Julio's name; the constable that had remained downstairs told us all to remain calm. Next thing I knew Julio was being led down in handcuffs. Mrs Jones shrieked as he was led not out the French windows but through the front door.

Mrs Jones recovered herself quickly, obviously trying to pretend nothing had happened. "Well, thank goodness I managed to calm Julio down," she said. "What a to-do! Are you all right, Daddy?"

Colin Jones, however, did not seem to want to pretend. "Your top, _Mummy_, is inside out."

The silence was overwhelming. Bridget looked like she wished she could disappear through the floor. Once again I took command of the situation, and I placed my hand on Bridget's arm. Then told her I was taking her away to celebrate the day in peace. She clasped my hand, smiled, and wished everyone a merry Christmas.

After gathering her things from upstairs (since she assumed we would be heading to my parents' then back to London), we set out on the road. We spent the first portion of the ride in a genial silence, at least until we passed through Huntingdon. When the expected turnoff did not occur, I was greeted with a look of confusion.

"Aren't we going to your parents'?" Bridget asked.

I shook my head.

Further confusion crossed her features. "Where _are_ we going, then?"

"It's a Christmas surprise."

She raised one brow at me, but said nothing more. At least for the moment.

We chatted a bit about what had just occurred in her parents' house. At about the hour mark she asked again if our destination was within Cambridge.

"Nope," I said. She pursed her lips a bit then smiled and relaxed back into the seat. I watched as her gaze drifted to look out the window at the falling snow through which we'd found ourselves driving, then watched too as she closed her eyes and dozed. My own attention was primarily fixed on my companion.

She awoke when the engine switched off, and she gasped as she stepped from the car. "Have we stepped into a period mini?" she asked. I laughed then told her where we were. Her mouth dropped open—clearly she'd heard of the place—and then she smiled. "I feel a bit underdressed," she said, glancing down to herself and her jumper and skirt, and then she looked at me. I realised then that I must have been rather dishevelled from travelling from Portugal (which seemed an eternity ago), my shirt buttons undone, my hair in need of a cut or at the very least a combing.

I chuckled. "Come on, I believe they're serving lunch," I said.

Lunch was fantastic; we drank champagne and discussed in greater detail what had happened that morning, amidst oddly misty looks on her part at the gravy boat. I explained how I'd spent the majority of December in Portugal, trying to get things worked out; how Julio would not relent on turning over the funds; how now that he was in the police's custody, he would likely turn them over now in order to gain some leniency.

"How come he came back to England?" she asked.

"Well, sorry to use a cliché, but I discovered his Achilles' heel."

"What?"

"Don't say 'what', Bridget, say 'pardon'," I said, mimicking her mother from earlier that day. She giggled—such a wonderful sound to hear. "I realised that, although your mother is the most impossible woman in the world, Julio loves her. He really loves her."

Her eyes were wide; her lips, slightly parted. "So what did you do?"

I explained my conversation with him in Funchal, how I'd had a hunch that his jealousy would be his downfall. She looked impressed and very grateful.

"But it was so kind of you, taking time off work and everything," she said earnestly. "Why did you bother doing all this?"

A nervous lump formed in my throat; a million thoughts raced through my head. I thought I had been wholly transparent. "Bridget," I said. "Isn't it rather obvious?"

In her surprise, she said nothing, and fleetingly I thought perhaps that was the end; I thought in that moment that at least the suite could always be cancelled if I'd just massively stepped in it and she slapped me across the face. But then she smiled, looked down almost shyly then up again, and said, "Oh."

I thought it was a positive reaction.

We left the dining room; she pardoned herself for the ladies' and while she did I went to check in. In retrospect, taking the suite might have seemed presumptuous but I really just wanted the rest and relaxation; all the better if she were there with me. I requested that the porter retrieve our bags from the car park and tell the driver the car would not be needed again today, that I would ring them up when needed tomorrow. He said he would take care of it. I also requested more champagne for the suite.

When she returned and we went not out to the car but upstairs, I could tell she was a little taken aback—not at the fact I'd taken a suite, so much as the posh décor and amenities within. The suite was beautiful, decorated in pale creams and dark wood; there was no missing the four-poster bed with its impeccably draped canopy and posts. Seeing it had a dual effect on me: I _did_ want to take her to bed, very much; more importantly, though, was that was not all I wanted from her.

She pulled me into exploring the room with her, not with cool detachment but carefree curiosity; I watched her turning lamps on and off, bouncing on the chairs as if to test their cushions, poking through the mini bar (and commenting that the miniature wrapped foods would have had her mother's approval), wandering through to the en suite bathroom and playing with the fixtures… and as we did these things together, I realised that I loved her. That I was in love with her. She was like no one else I'd ever known; she could make looking through a hotel room fun, even one that was a replicate of almost every other one I'd stayed in before.

A knock on the door interrupted our foray. It was the champagne, as well as our bags. I popped the cork then poured, and after having a rather long sip, I set down the empty flute, looked her in her eye and told her that I really cared for her. A lot.

Her response was not quite what I expected. "Why didn't you ring me up before Christmas, then?" she asked, wrinkling her brow. "I left you _two_ messages."

Sheepishly, I admitted, "I didn't want to talk to you 'til I'd finished the job. And I didn't think you liked me much."

"_What?_" she asked, incredulous.

"Well, you know," I said. "You stood me up because you were drying your _hair_? And the first time I met you I was wearing that stupid jumper and bumblebee socks from my aunt and behaved like a complete clod. I thought you thought I was the most frightful stiff."

"Well, I did, a bit," she said hesitantly, her eyes sparkling. "But…"

"'But' what?" I asked.

She grinned impishly. "Don't you mean 'but pardon'?"

I could take it no longer. I reached and relieved her of her half-full glass, then reached for her. Emboldened by the day behind me (and perhaps the champagne within me), I bent and placed my lips on hers for a fleeting kiss. "Right, Bridget Jones, I'm going to give you pardon for," I said in a low tone.

I shall never forget the look on her face as I bent to sweep her up into my arms, then marched over to the bedroom area and set her down on the mattress. When I kissed her again next, I don't think I stopped for a very, very long time.

When I finally did sleep (which was not until the wee hours), I slept peacefully and solidly, with a very warm, soft woman curled against me. I needed no consultation with a journal last night.

Some time still before sunrise, I roused and as I did, a dawning horror washed over me. The number of times I had been spurred into spontaneous passion was indecent; I had kissed and caressed her in a way that could have at best been considered 'taking liberties'. Surely I had gone too far. Surely she would wake, realise I was the most odious degenerate alive, and run shrieking from the room. I would never hear from her again.

She shifted, and I heard her yawn. I froze. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. I felt the bed shifting, the bed linens being pushed back; I realised she had gotten up and was going, in the dim of the room, towards…. Well, I wasn't sure.

I heard the rustle of paper. Cautiously I opened my eyes in time to see her sitting, stark naked, in one of the chairs by the desk lamp, carefully writing something down. My panic was reaffirmed; I was immediately convinced it would be a goodbye note. She set the book into which she'd been writing back into her bag, which I thought she would take into the loo with her, in order to dress then flee.

She did not do any of these things.

Instead, she set the bag back down in its place, turned—could just make out the shape of her body before I closed my eyes again—then came back into bed and drew the covers up over herself once more. Not only that, the tender touch of her fingers traced along the hair at my temple, which she followed up with a kiss on my forehead.

I thought then that it was entirely possible she did not think me an odious deviant, after all.

Thus reassured, I fell back into that deep and sound slumber and did not wake until the sun was well high in the sky. I was not sure exactly what it was that woke me, but I slowly opened my eyes to see Bridget propped up on an elbow, looking down at me.

"It worked," she breathed.

"What?" I said, then immediately corrected myself: "Pardon?"

She chuckled. "Thought vibes," she said, resting her cheek on the pillow, and still managing to look both bloody smug and bloody gorgeous. "They obviously worked."

A short, sharp laugh and a "Don't be silly" erupted from me before I could stop myself. She looked at me with consternation. The notion of 'thought vibes' was a bit absurd, but I thought after less than a day together, I should keep further opinions to myself.

"You'll pay for that, Mark Darcy."

Then she leaned in over me and tortured me with a rather long and aggressive kiss.

We eventually got out of bed, had a bath in the spa tub, then lunched en suite; despite my suggestion we have the Boxing Day Jazz lunch, she preferred to stay put. This both surprised me (I was used to the sort of woman who never would have refused a posh lunch) and delighted me (lunch was relegated to a brief pause before further lovemaking). Eventually we got out of bed again, then, after checking out and ringing up the driver, we had a wonderful candlelight dinner together. (As I shaved in the bathroom I muttered some complaint about my hair being too shaggy; this elicited a little laugh. "It's microscopically long," she'd said, as I felt her fingernails raking through the hair at my nape. I was very glad to be using a safety razor.)

The two hour drive was spent holding her hand, occasionally stealing a little kiss; such is the way of new romance, I guess. I once scoffed at the notion of post-coital cuddling. What a fool I'd been. Then again, this was Bridget, and there was no getting around the fact that I was thoroughly smitten.

The length of this supposedly brief entry supports this theory completely.

Now I'll wrap this up, because I have an appointment to keep in Bridget's cosy flat.

Sat, 30 Dec

I have been otherwise occupied, regarding this journal. And sleeping very well indeed at night, so even though I have gotten quite used to writing things down, I feel very little need to do so lately.

One thing I neglected to mention was this: when I returned home that evening on Boxing Day, I had answerphone messages from my mother. Immediately I felt terrible for having gone the entire Christmas holiday without so much as a telephone call to my family, and evidently I had never given her the number for the portable phone. I rang her immediately.

"Mark!" There was a mixture of anger and exasperation in her voice. "I was so worried! Why didn't you call? Where have you been? And is it true you kidnapped Pam and Colin's daughter?"

I laughed out loud. What on earth had her mother told mine? "I was tracking down Julio in Portugal," I said. "I called you from there."

"I meant for the last _week_," she said. "And what's this about Bridget?"

"I took her away from the Jones' in order to have some semblance of sanity for the holiday," I said.

"You could have brought her here."

"I am sorry," I said. "I… as it turned out…" I felt heat wash over my face. "Well. We wanted time alone together."

You could have heard a pin drop, with the silence that came over her. Then she said my name again, in a very different tone, one of utter joy. "This is wonderful!" she gushed. "So if you're coming up for Una's turkey curry buffet, maybe you can come early with Bridget and have lunch with us!"

She was acting as if I were fifteen, like I'd never dated a girl before. It was endearing more than anything. "I think that'd be fine, but I'd better ask before I make any plans." I hadn't given much thought to life beyond our next date, but I wanted to get off of the subject of how we have been spending most of our time. "I hope this means I'm forgiven."

Mother laughed lightly. "Of course you are, Mark," she said.

I still felt pretty terrible, though.

Sun, 31 Dec

_Midday_

Home for a bit while Bridget has lunch with her friends. I think it might have been the same friends I met at the dinner party. I also needed to take care of some long-neglected work-related items; although chambers is closed for the week between Christmas and New Years Day, there were other things left over from while I was away in Portugal, things which required my direct involvement. Mostly paperwork. It was a bit difficult to focus on it, if I must be honest; it was boring and all I could think of was being finished, dressing for dinner and spending the countdown to midnight with her.

Saw my housekeeper, Analyn, and wished her a happy new year. She laughed and said she was beginning to think I'd moved out because it hadn't looked like I'd been home in days. The more I thought about it, the more I realised she might have been right.

Anyway. Definitely happier than at this time last year.

Mon, 1 Jan

Happy new year.

Last night was a pleasure. Bridget had made plans for New Years Eve prior to our becoming a couple, and shyly she'd asked me did I mind if we still went. I was up for it, but told her, "as long as we're together at midnight." At this she'd smiled and agreed with a nod.

The party was not in a nightclub or a pub, thank goodness, but in what I soon discovered was Jude's (from Brightlings) flat. Very upscale, and looked like she had booked the same interiors consultant I had for the house, though the overall effect was decidedly different. Warmer, somehow. I saw that her boyfriend was present, though he did his best to avoid interacting with me. Also present was the outspoken Sharon and the eccentric Tom from the dinner party. Although I spent most of the evening with Bridget, most of our conversation was with them. There was a subtle difference in talking with them when compared to the dinner party in just November. They seemed a bit more… hostile, to be honest. Perhaps it's just my perception.

There was some slow-tempo music playing, and jokingly a few folks began to dance. I extended my hand towards Bridget and smiled; she giggled, took my hand, and we began to dance too. "I'm not very good at this," she said, but in actual fact, she and I moved together flawlessly to the song. I think she was just being modest.

As midnight approached I made sure we both had flutes of champagne. I took her hand as the countdown began, then kissed her as the clock struck midnight, kissed her again and again until we were being shouted at to get a room. Bridget turned bright red; I'm pretty sure I did too. We then participated in the toasting of the new year.

Heeding the advice of her friends, we didn't stay much longer than that. We returned to Bridget's flat and made love. All night. (I am sleeping very well, but probably not long enough—for entirely different reasons.)

I awoke with a start to Bridget shrieking, "Gahhh!"

"What?!"

"We're having lunch with your parents and I haven't the faintest idea what to wear!"

I laid back down on the pillow, willing my adrenalin to settle. "Bridget, this is hardly a crisis situation. My mother and father already know you well. You don't have to try to impress them—they already like you."

She looked sceptical.

"Truly," I said. "I mean, my mother was part of the conspiracy, wasn't she?"

Bridget smiled, then leaned over me to give me a kiss. "I still want to look nice," she said.

"You will," I said, then added, "You always do." I glanced to the clock on the bedside table. There would be no late lie-in; we had to drive to Huntingdon for lunch. "Why don't I make us some breakfast?"

"I'm not sure what I have," she said.

After taking a purely utilitarian shower, I shaved then put on some coffee in the cafetière and warmed up some chocolate croissants from the freezer. When she emerged from the bedroom, I thought she had never looked more beautiful; she had left her hair down and loose, had donned a flattering dark blue dress, had carefully done up her makeup.

"Does it look all right?" she asked. "What if she thinks she made a mistake? Oh! She may already have changed her mind!"

I honestly had no idea from where this on-going mania had come. "She hasn't changed her mind." I took her in my arms and murmured to her, "You look so gorgeous I wish we didn't have to go out at all." I thought it was the right thing to say, and honestly, I meant it.

"It's all well and good to be _appreciated_ by one's own boyfriend," she said, "but I don't wish to be considered as a common prostitute by said boyfriend's parents. I'm sure they already think this way after the tarts and vicars debacle…"

I laughed and kissed her again. "The only moron who didn't understand about the change of plans was Natasha."

This garnered a smile. The teasing tone of her voice as she spoke suggested the crisis was over: "You just want to have sex with me later."

"Not true," I said as I slipped my hands down over her backside. "I want to have sex with you right now." This elicited a delightful laugh from her.

It was—and is—much more than just wanting to have sex, though—and I'm sure she knows it. Having her close to me. The warmth of her. The way she takes initiative. Her ardent responsiveness. The constant surprises. How much she clearly enjoys herself. The softness of her skin. The gorgeous curves that seemed to perfectly fit in my hands….

If it sounds like I've reverted to some sort of lovesick schoolboy—and, reading back, yes, I do rather sound that way—it's because I think I might be. Not particularly dignified for a man my age or stature, but there it is. I don't think I've ever been happier.


	7. Chapter 7: 2 Jan - 28 Jan

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 7: 2 Jan – 28 Jan**

Thurs, 2 Jan

Today heralded the return to work. I think in forgetting to change the calendar I somehow got off by a day. Fixed now.

The drive to Huntingdon was pleasant in B's company; it continues to surprise me how much she delights me even in the most mundane situations, how easy our conversations seem to come. The mixed weather proved to be challenging enough such that when we got there—a little too late, and not only due to the weather—I drank a glass of wine with lunch far too quickly. It seemed B noticed, took my hand and held it nearly the entire time we were there. I'm certain I saw my mother smiling.

While Bridget was out of the room my mother said, "Your brother called yesterday just after midnight Hong Kong time. I let him know about the latest development." She nodded her head in the direction that B had taken. "He's very pleased for you."

I was just about to say that I should ring him up for a chat when B returned with a beaming smile. "I'm so glad you're getting use out of the essential oil burner," she said proudly. "I saw it in the hallway."

"Oh, yes," my mother replied. "It's worked beautifully, though, strangely enough, it smelt a bit like soured milk for the first few tries."

I looked quickly to B, who looked right back at me; it was all I could do not to burst out into laughter, and she looked much the same.

We spent a little time in the sitting room. My father surprised me (and B) by asking her whether she wanted to play some cards. "We can keep it simple," he said; she agreed, and they sat at the table.

She laughed. "Old Maid," she explained at my querulous expression.

While they played, I settled into the chair and watched with some amusement her expression of concentration. However, the sleep deprivation must have caught up with me, and I dozed off; it was a little while later that Bridget was shaking my shoulder to let me know it was time to go to turkey curry buffet.

Before we left for the car, my mother pulled me aside. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Are you still sleeping poorly?"

I shook my head. Her brow raised quizzically. I really did not want to explain to her that the wee hours had been occupied by amorous activity for the better part of the previous week. The shade that my skin turned must have told her, however.

"Oh," she said with a knowing smile.

The wine I'd had was long out of my system, so I drove us all over to the Alconburys'. I felt quite pleased and proud to have B at my side. I held her hand, or kept my arm about her shoulders. She jokingly thanked me later for protecting her from Geoffrey.

After driving back to London, I dropped her at her flat, but we decided that I should probably not come up. We did, however, share a rather extended goodnight kiss on the front step.

"Sleep well," she said with a smirk; I wondered if she overheard the conversation I'd had with my mother.

I stroked her cheek with the backs of my fingers. "You too," I said softly. And here's where I nearly stepped in it: "Goodnight, darling. I l—I'll call you tomorrow."

She nodded, pecked me on the lips again, then turned to go up into her flat.

I stood there for a few moments, surprised at myself. I had nearly said "I love you." I knew it to be true, but after a week… I thought probably it might be a bit much for her to take.

Now that I'm home and in bed… it seems much too large and far too cold. (Both home and bed.)

Sat, 4 Jan

_10.00_

The beginning of a new relationship is where you find out the little things that make you realise your partner is, in fact, only human. It has become ever more clear that B has some habits that are in need of discipline—okay, the one that concerns me is the smoking, primarily for health reasons, obviously.

The first time I asked garnered me a chuckle as she lit up. The next time I asked her to promise to quit, and she agreed, but I sensed her heart was not in it. The next time after that, last night, as she flicked the lighter and lit up, I snatched the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it out. She looked completely traumatised at my actions, as if I'd instead smothered our firstborn.

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

I thought it rather obvious. "You promised you'd quit."

"I know," she said with a slight upward tilt of her chin. "I am quitting."

I glanced meaningfully toward the ashtray where the bent fag rested, then looked to her. "Bridget, smoking is devastating to the health," I said sternly. "Lighting up a cigarette does not constitute quitting."

She affected the look of a scolded schoolgirl. "But it's only the… fifth I've had today."

"And that's quitting, is it?" I asked darkly (but restraining a smile—hard to believe it could be normal to find someone quite so adorable and sexy even whilst a bit angry with them).

"I'm tapering off," she said. "System will go into shock if I quit full stop."

At this I started to laugh and took her into my arms—remembering her speech to me from when we'd first met. "You know," I murmured, "it's much more enjoyable to kiss you when you don't taste of cigarettes."

At this she reared back and began to smack me with a small pillow, but we were both laughing now, then kissed again and…

I suspect that she will not quit altogether, but simply not smoke around me. I intend to keep trying.

Sun, 5 Jan

I have a confession to make within these pages.

The first time I thought was a fluke or coincidence. Now, however, the consistency with which the so-called 'thought vibes' have awakened me in the morning has begun to alarm me a little. Have I in fact become bewitched? After all, we are talking about a woman who could make a terracotta essential oil burner take in milk. What other strange powers could she possess?

Last night, whilst I was staying at B's flat, I woke suddenly in the dark of the night for no discernible reason. Immediately I noticed B looking down at me, her mouth twisted in a devilish little smirk.

"What is it?" I asked, pushing myself up.

"Nothing," she replied. "I just wanted to see if I could wake you."

Of course, I took full advantage of my sudden wakefulness. Still. There is no logical explanation.

Thurs, 9 Jan

After a little over two weeks together, B and I seem to have fallen into a bit of a routine, one that I like very much. We talk by phone during the day, and most evenings, I go to her flat after work. We have supper together—she picks up some takeaway, or I do—then we move to the sofa to talk, cuddle up, snog. On cooler nights I light a fire in the hearth. In fact, since I'm here so often, I've given Giles her telephone number, in case my mobile can't get a signal (or its unreliable battery has died).

I appreciate that she lets me vent (or even just talk) about my latest case involvement. She may not have a deep understanding of legal procedure, but she listens intently and offers suggestions or advice based on common sense or compassion… usually both. (Though I don't think the players involved would wish for me to refer to them as 'fuckwits'.) She often helps me to see a side of the situation I might not otherwise have noticed, and I like to think I do the same for her when she's ranting about her moronic boss, Richard Finch.

It isn't always possible for me to stay over, and we don't always even make love, but when I do leave (be it morning or night), I feel content, fulfilled and happy.

On nights like tonight, when I am about to retire for the evening alone in my own bed, I ponder what it might be like for her to come over to my house, but compared to her wonderfully cosy flat, this house seems so cold, bare, and impersonal. I fear that if she sees it she will think I have no soul at all, or that just beneath the surface I'm as mad as a loon to keep the place looking so antiseptic. It's embarrassing, in all truth.

Fri, 10 Jan

Strange night. Rang up B about tonight, and could immediately tell by the hesitation in her voice that something was wrong.

"It's… well, it's nothing," she said. "I had just forgotten I'd half-made plans for tonight. For Tom's birthday. I mean, before you and I… you know."

She meant before we'd started seeing one another. "Oh," I said. "Well, that's fine."

After a pause, she said, "Why don't you come? I mean… they won't mind."

I had my trepidation, given the coolness with which I felt I'd been treated at the New Years party. But they were her friends, they'd been part of her life for much longer than I had, so I felt it was my responsibility to at least try to show them some warmness.

"All right," I said, keeping my tone light.

Plans were for dinner at half seven, so I offered to pick her up from work. "Oh, I'll want to go home first to change my clothes," she said.

"I can take you home first," I said.

"Sure," she said, then teased, "you've become quite the expert at getting me out of my clothes."

When we got to her flat, I tried to remain business-like and aloof, telling her that she should get dressed promptly so we could be there on time. She smiled that devilish little smile I've come to adore, and insisted she wanted to have a quick run through the shower and would I please help wash her back? And then, of course, she wanted my input into what to wear, and which vantage point for such a decision would be better than her bed? Secretly, I was quite pleased to be thus tempted by her, and even more pleased she feels free to tempt me when she likes. (Plus, I am now given to understand that a little over a fortnight into a relationship, it is a fact that it is perfectly normal to stop whenever one feels the need in order to have a quick romp, perfectly acceptable to be late as a result… although this is far outside my usual experience. Then again, there is _nothing_ usual about my relationship with B; after all, she informed me of this 'stop whenever one feels like it' fact in no uncertain terms by murmuring it into my ear just as she was straddling my lap as I sat on the bed. It is a very persuasive argument, especially in the moment.)

With a half-hour to spare we were on our way to the restaurant. Upon our arrival to the table, it was immediately obvious to me that B had not given her friends warning that I would be coming with her, and they looked at me warily.

"Happy birthday," I said to Tom.

It was not long before the group of them started talking about one another's relationships. I felt in the midst of an alien race, what with gibberish about rubber bands bouncing and rules about who's supposed to call whom being bandied about. I dreaded to think what they said about me whilst I was not present. As if reading my mind, B rested her hand upon where mine sat on my knee, and squeezed reassuringly.

In my observation of the only other females there (Sharon and Jude), my mind wandered into the land of the theoretical and improbable—needless to say, I concluded quickly that neither of them would be quite as satisfying as sleeping with B. Sharon would probably make you wear a collar and lead, and bark commands at you the whole time. Jude would probably bleat and cry and whine. I'll keep the girl I've got, thanks very much, and will be sure to show extra appreciation at next opportunity…

It was not a bad night, but I made a mistake, though, during the course of dinner. I voiced one opinion about Jude's boyfriend Richard (rather, ex-boyfriend, as she had dumped him just about the time B and I had gotten together), that how she might well be better off without him. The table around me went perfectly silent. You would have thought I'd said the man deserved a tar and feather. After that I said no more, and resorted to observer. B explained later that it was bad form to slag off recent exes, as there was a good chance if they got back together that she would tell him the horrible things her friends had said about him. I'm sure my confusion was plain on my face; she told me I'd get the hang of it eventually.

Evidently what I do not understand is the rules of engagement for what seems to be an actual battle of the sexes. Felt as if I'd dropped into some kind of dating war command. To be perfectly honest, it is a strange world to occupy.

Mon, 12 Jan

_01.30 am_

When it was obvious on Saturday afternoon that I was still fretting about Tom's birthday party, B told me not to worry about it. I confessed to her that I thought they didn't like me. "Sure they do," she said. "You're just not like my other boyfriends."

I thought of Una, of her 'millions of men' comment—and pushed the thought out of my head.

"Plus," she added, "I think they're a bit jealous."

"Jealous?" I asked, incredulous.

"Well, yes," she said, blue eyes wide. "I spend a lot of my time with you now, and not them. I mean—they're glad I'm happy, really, but it's normal they're jealous, I think."

I did not at all understand the odd, self-defeating notions they seemed to expect and even encourage in one another, and my expression must have conveyed that. She then laughed, caressed my face, then kissed me again, and to be honest, I quite forgot all about the conversation until just now. Sometimes I think my earlier assessment of 'bizarre' was spot on, more than I ever knew.

God, I do love her though. Marvellous day today with her. Best in recent memory. More later.

Weds, 15 Jan

Work going well; things with B going even better. I did not get the time before (on the last entry) to detail our visit on Sunday to the Saatchi Gallery, which was B's idea. A friend of hers had suggested it; she'd been to see another show the previous year with this same friend (she declined to give details on both friend and show) and thought it might be fun and interesting to take in the local culture.

I rarely went to art galleries or museums there in town, which seemed a pity given all that was available to me. I agreed.

I can appreciate modern art, though it's aesthetically not my favourite genre. Nevertheless we had a jolly good time—one exhibit was entirely consisting of realistic, life-sized figures of the most ordinary looking people. We agreed they were technically amazing, though, as B said, "Not something I'd want standing in my flat. Well… maybe the security guard figure could keep away prowlers." Another exhibit consisted of entirely blobby metallic figures. "Looks like something I could have done, aged four, with runny clay," she whispered. I could not hold in a laugh.

By the time we got to the piece that looked exactly like a windblown office, we were keeping one another in stitches. "If this is art," she said, "then I am literally sitting daily at a tidy sum."

Our spirits still high, we went to a pub near her flat for supper, had a bit too much to drink, and went back to her flat to watch a film together on the telly, or rather, attempted to watch between spontaneous snogging and cuddling in our slight intoxication. Eventually we gave up altogether on the film and just went to bed.

After (well, not immediately, but whilst lounging and dozing), I told her I was feeling peckish.

"Oh," she said sleepily, hair splayed amongst the pillows. "Think there might be some cheese in the fridge."

Thus encouraged, I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge… and (I'm embarrassed to say) let out a bit of a scream.

Footsteps pounded my way. "Are you all right?" she asked at full wakefulness and sobriety.

I had started to laugh. "Bridget, I don't mean to alarm you," I said, "but I think the cheese might be about to declare its sovereignty." It was astounding. I had never seen a cheese quite so spectacularly moulded. She turned a fetching state of crimson (all over, I might add) then started to laugh, too.

We settled instead for a packet of biscuits, which had been sealed and were thus quite fresh and not approaching sentience in the least. Then… we went back to bed with them.

As I said, a very good day.

Mon, 20 Jan

Work suddenly exploded. Not literally, of course, but it has put me in a position where I've been working more like I did before I met B. I barely even spoke to her over the weekend, and we only met once for lunch on Saturday. I apologised profusely and told her work has eased up so tonight I'll pick up a curry to take over. I didn't mention taking along my attaché as I've got a few things to review before tomorrow. She won't mind.

Must remember to mention Law Society Dinner to B.

_Later_

We pulled a blanket out onto the floor of the sitting room and had a sort-of picnic with our curry and some wine. It was so nice to sit back and relax for even a little bit, not eat as quickly as humanly possible over a pile of paperwork, and it was especially lovely as the wine got B a bit tipsy, and when she's tipsy she's even more adorable.

She's also a bit more insistent that I don't try to bring work home.

"What are you doing?" she asked, dropping to lie back and rest her head in my lap, batting at the bottom of my papers as if a playful kitten, looking up at me with those big blue eyes of hers. I lifted them out of reach, but she kept at it.

"Got a bit of reading for tomorrow."

She blew air out through her lips. "That is no fun at all."

"Bridget," I said. "It's very important work I'm doing and—"

I stopped when I saw her stick out her tongue, then smirk. "You're not at work now. You came here to have dinner with me."

"It's just a few pages," I said.

She moved her head slightly up my lap, away from my knees. "You have three minutes to finish reading," she announced, rolling her head around a bit in a most distracting manner, given her proximity to a most sensitive area. "Well, get on with it," she prompted. Then she told me what she was going to do at the end of my allotted three minutes, something that distracted me from my reading, and something I am too much of a gentleman to record in detail here. I'll just say her position made easy work of it. And she has a lousy internal clock.

Afterwards, I commented, "Maybe I should bring work to your flat more often."

She threatened to nip that idea in the bud, in a manner of speaking.

Weds, 22 Jan

_07.30 am_

Dinner with B at the flat, pizza and wine, prompting tipsy laughter as we snogged on the sofa. Would have happily returned Monday's favour, but B insisted that it was not the best time of month. It took me a moment to realise what she meant, so I granted she might be right on that count, but still didn't think of it as being a complete showstopper to sleeping with her.

"Eurgh, no," she said with some distaste. "Plus, you know…" She drew her hand across her abdomen.

"No?" I asked. "Isn't that supposed to alleviate that?"

"Mark," she said insistently.

I offered a smile. I didn't want her thinking I only wanted one thing. "I understand, darling," I said. "It's all right."

She eyed me warily, but sank back into my arms, and we snuggled a bit more before going to bed. (To sleep.)

"How long?" I asked as I held her to me, spooned in the darkness of her bedroom.

"How long what?"

"Not that I'm some kind of maniac—" I began.

"How long what?" she asked again, turning over to look at me.

"Until… I've got the all-clear."

"Mark Darcy, is that all you think about?" she barked, tears in her eyes.

"No!" I insisted, though conceded it did sound that way (even if the concession was only in my own thoughts). "I just wanted to know how much time I should give you before broaching the subject again."

She exhaled, then wept a bit more. I had no idea what I should do. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just a little… hormonal, first day." She then reached out and clung to me; I held her in return.

"It's quite all right," I murmured, then all went silent for so long I thought she might have gone to sleep. I still had no answer, and I daren't ask again.

"Saturday," she said just as I began dozing.

"Pardon?"

"Should be all right on Saturday. Maybe Sunday. It can be a bit odd."

"What?!" I said, a little too loudly. I had gone _months_ without sex before, yet this stretch of five or six days… Saturday suddenly seemed eons away. In that moment I hated myself for feeling like a disgusting, sex-crazed pervert.

"Sorry," she said, then stroked my face lovingly and pecked a kiss on my lips. She turned over once more, settled against me and pulled my arm across her, laid the palm of my hand flat against her abdomen. "Better than a water bottle," she said softly. No more than a minute or so later I heard the quiet, regular sound of sleep-breathing coming from her. I was happy to be there with her when she needed me—truly, it is not all about the sex—and I fell asleep soon afterwards… however, I was unfortunately plagued by dreams that were laden with frustration, then awakened by alleged 'thought vibes' again. Thought it was really a bit much. I'm afraid I may have shouted a little before realising B did not look at all well. I asked if she was all right.

"I'll be fine," she said.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She nodded, so I gave her a kiss, told her I had court this morning, said I'd ring her up later, and left her still in bed.

Thurs, 23 Jan

_07.45 am_

During the lunch break yesterday, I rang up B at work. There was no answer, so I tried on her mobile, which she answered. "I stayed home from work," she confessed, and to be honest, sounded a little petulant as she did.

I was confused. "I thought you said you'd be fine."

She didn't respond to that, only said after a silent beat, "If could you could come over after you're done… I could use a little TLC."

I said that I would come by, but I admit that I was baffled as to why she'd say she would be fine when she wasn't. As for what she wanted… well, on to that in a bit.

Court proceedings ended shortly after 14.00 so I went straight over to her flat. She looked unwell, indeed, and held a hot water bottle to her stomach. I set aside my questions about when I left that morning, told her to go back to bed and I'd bring her some tea.

"Sofa," she said. "I've set up on the sofa, watching telly."

"Okay." I brought her back to her sofa, my arm around her waist. "I'll get you some tea," I said, "biscuits…" She nodded. Then I asked, feeling a bit sheepish as I did, "So where do you keep it? Do you need me to open the bottle?"

"Keep what?" she asked, bringing her brows together.

"TLC," I said, not admitting my complete ignorance as to what this object was; I assumed it was something like paracetamol. She stared at me as if I'd gone 'round the bend. "If you needed more you should have told me. I could have stopped at the chemist's—"

I stopped because she started making a sound that I could not at first discern what it was. Then I realised she was laughing when she leaned over and put her arms around me, kissing me on the lips and cheek before holding me close to her.

"What I need," she said in her amusement, "is TLC—tender, loving care—from _you_, Mark Darcy."

She had a curious habit of saying my full name at times, one I found endearing. I returned the hug and kiss, told her to sit back and I'd make that tea.

"It'll keep," she murmured. "I'd rather have some of this patented TLC right now."

Eventually I did make that tea (amidst great playful teasing about not knowing what 'TLC' meant), made us some supper (some steaks and greens that were in the fridge—was complimented on my cookery skills) then watched some telly as I held her in my arms and doled out more TLC.

"I hope you're feeling better," I said quietly to her at the conclusion of the programme.

"Hmm," she said. "Much." She turned in my arms and gave me a kiss. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"My pleasure," I said, and it was. "It's late. We should go to bed."

She nodded. We got ready for bed then slipped in; I took her into my arms, spooned up to her, and once more she placed my hand flat against her stomach. "I'll be better tomorrow," she said confidently. "The worst is just about over."

We slept that way all night. When I woke today at just after 06.00, it was before B, and I had the chance to observe her sleeping. It was tempting to leave her sleeping in such a peaceful state, but I had to go home to shave and change and wanted to say goodbye before I left.

"You're sure you're okay?" I asked, thinking of the day before, when 'I'll be fine' meant anything but that.

"Yes, I promise today I'm right as rain and will be going to work."

"When you're not okay," I said, scolding a bit as I thought of yesterday morning, "you should just say so. I could have… made arrangements to stay with you."

She smiled. "Okay." She then gave me a lingering kiss that was another kind of promise, a promise of things to come on the weekend. "Good luck with court." I told her I'd call during the lunch break, got dressed, and headed for home, where I am now.

Speaking of court, I must be off. I haven't even read through my briefs for the morning.

Sat, 25 Jan

_13.30_

I shall not again make a sound of complaint in future months to come, regarding a certain regular, enforced period of abstinence. I have only just arrived home after spending the evening with B. I had expected after going to the cinema and having dinner that I would just be going up to the flat for a cuddle then maybe a nice night's sleep. I was wrong.

We had some Irish cream over ice and then to my surprise she was half on my lap, kissing me and roaming her hand over my shirt then at the waist of my trousers. I had a mind to shout at her for torturing me in such a way when she whispered close to my ear, "Everything's all… _sorted_ now."

I gave her a look that expressed my lack of comprehension, or at least I must have, because then she explained, in my own terms, that I had the all-clear.

Nothing can compare to the first time we made love after those months of what can only best be described now as unresolved sexual tension (okay, possibly more unresolved on my part than on hers). Last night, however, came very damn close. As a rule I feel it is uncouth to record details of intimate trysts, even for (_especially_ for) my own journal. I want to at least mention that now I'm home, I'll need to nap for a few hours as sleeping was a very low priority last night.

_Later_

Almost forgot.

Whilst getting ice for our Bailey's drinks last night, I happened upon a curious item. "Bridget," I called. "Why are there a pair of your pants in the freezer?"

She turned scarlet. "Remember when it was very hot during the August bank holiday?"

"Yes…?" I encouraged.

"Well, it was a trick of Marilyn Monroe's from a film, to put your pants in the freezer for a little pick-me-up when it's hot."

I pulled them from where they sat and held them out to her. They were as stiff as cardboard. "Very refreshing, I'm sure," I said drolly. "How many years were you planning on keeping them in there?"

She laughed too. "I suppose I had them in there a bit too long," she said, waving them around as if they were a flag; they were cute, red, lacy pants. "I'd model them for you but, well…"

At the time I thought she meant it would be a terrible tease. Now I know otherwise.

Mon, 27 Jan

_09.00_

Quick note. Stayed over at Bridget's again. Rationally I know that I shouldn't when I have to work in the morning, but leaving her to go home to my empty house is not particularly appealing, especially when continuing to make up a bit for lost time. Awakening this morning, however, I found Bridget staring at me, attempting her thought vibes again. I'm afraid that I was a bit harsh—possibly due to persistence to doing this coupled with a deficit of sleep for the second night running (not that this is a complaint)—and sat up, barking that she should stop it and go find something to do. I realised then it was nearly eight, so I hurriedly dressed and said my goodbyes, apologising with a kiss before dashing out.

Tues, 28 Jan

_08.30_

Monday turned out to be a very busy day. I'm only now getting a chance to catch up, and I have a later start today.

The morning flew by, in part due to a crucial meeting with the Indonesian Ambassador, the Head of Amnesty International and the Under-Secretary of State for Trade and Industry. Just as meeting was winding down for lunch—felt as if we were not making any progress at all, with the two parties having very different ideas about what 'human rights' even means—my direct line rang. It was B, ringing me up to let me know she's going to Leicestershire. "I thought I'd let you know in case anything happens to me," she added, which, given the conversation I'd been having with the Ambassador and the Under-Secretary, sent my mind careering off into worst-case scenarios. After my obvious confusion she explained that she meant in case she was late getting back—huge relief—so then I told her to call me when she's close to getting back and I'd see her then.

Thankfully, my arduous meeting with the Ambassador and the Under-Secretary ended in time for my usual late afternoon break, when I put on the telly in my office and watch the show that B works on. She hasn't been on screen since the interview with Elena Rossini (who mailed me a Christmas card to thank me again), but today I was pleased to discover she was to appear in a segment (presumably in Leicestershire) about fox hunting.

When the segment came on, I began to chuckle, then laugh, and could barely stop—and I know she'd throttle me if she knew I had laughed in such a way—because the horse she had mounted was beyond her control while her guest railed on and on about restrictions on the hunt. She only managed to sign off "back to the studio" before the segment ended. I felt so badly for her—couldn't wait to give her a little hug and kiss, as much as I couldn't wait to get the same back from her after my supremely frustrating meeting.

I thought about staying a bit later at the office (waiting to hear back from B about her ETA) when I realised it was the last Monday of the month, and therefore the monthly drinks party at Barky Thompson's. Since it's on the way back towards Bridget's flat I decided I'd pop in and say hello, taking off my tie for a slightly more casual look.

Almost immediately I arrived a dry martini was pressed into my hand. I decided to have only the one, obviously, since I'd need to drive in short order, and probably would not finish it at that. Within a few minutes I said hellos to Barky and a few other acquaintances I knew peripherally in my field.

"Mark, I've heard so much about you."

I turned to see a tall, thin woman standing there with long, straight blonde hair, beaming a smile, with her hand stretched out towards me. "I'm Rebecca," she said. "I'm a good friend of Bridget's."

She was dressed in what I could tell (from my acquaintance with Natasha) was high-end couture, and her hair looked too shiny to be the product of nature, if I'm to be honest—so I was immediately sceptical of the 'good friend' statement, because B doesn't care about those things much at all. In being honest, though, I was also pleased at the prospect that I might actually make friends with one of B's friends, as Jude, Sharon and Tom seemed to regard me with suspicion. I took her hand and gave it a brief shake. "It's nice to meet you," I said.

She asked me a little about my work, what I was working on now (she remembered the Rossini case), so I told her I was embroiled in human rights discussions with the Indonesians. "That sounds so exciting!" she said with a little laugh.

I didn't really want to talk about that (since the details of it are quite unpleasant), so I steered conversation back to our mutual friend. "So, you know Bridget—" I began.

"Oh, it's really _so_ wonderful to meet you at last," she gushed, interrupting me. "I'm so glad that Bridget's _finally_ settled down with a mature, responsible man! She's been _such_ a free spirit, we all doubted it would _ever_ happen!"

I felt very pleased and proud to have made such an impression on her—as B's friend, she would have been in a position to know some of those 'millions' of past boyfriends. "She is one of a kind," I said with a smile.

For a split-second (such that now I'm sure I must have imagined it) an expression that looked very much like surprise crossed her face but then it was gone; she smiled again, delicately sipping her wine. "Such a lucky girl," she said.

I circulated a little more then glanced to my watch. Nearly half eight—and I hadn't heard at all from B. I made my excuses then headed out.

When I first arrived, she seemed a little irritated. Dropped my things, took her in my arms as if dancing—I was so pleased to see her at last, and told her so. Then I teased, "I really enjoyed your report, fantastic horse-woman-ship."

She said it was awful; I insisted it was not: "It was brilliant. For centuries people have been riding horses forwards and then, with one seminal report, a lone woman changes the face—or arse—of British horsemanship forever. It was ground-breaking, a triumph." With this I felt suddenly drained and dropped heavily to her sofa, explaining the rough day with the Indonesians. She brought me a glass of wine, which I accepted gratefully. (I should mention she looked absolutely sexy: spaghetti-strap top, snug jeans. _Very_ sexy.)

She then said, "Supper won't be long."

In the month since we'd started going out, I cannot recall that she has cooked supper for us, ever. I'm afraid my reaction was less than supportive, as I thought of the blue soup from the dinner party: "Oh my God. Have you cooked?"

"Yes," she said coolly.

I invited her to sit beside me. "Come here. I'm only teasing you." I took her in my arms, ran my fingers over the bare skin of her shoulder. "I've always wanted to go out with Martha Stewart." I hoped then to get a little snog in, but she pushed back and stood up.

"I'll just do the pasta," she announced. The telephone rang, and reflexively she picked it up, looking a bit apologetic as she did. I could only assume it was one of her friends. I heard her say "He's here" twice, so I said with a nod,

"It's all right. I realise I'm here. I don't think it's the sort of thing we should be keeping from each other."

I was a little concerned by the glance she gave me as she removed the pasta from the heat, and continued her conversation. I drummed my fingers on the sofa, but she went on (about God knows what—I could hardly tell from her side of the conversation); I then made gestures suggesting I would soon expire if she did not disconnect soon (throat slitting, toilet flushing, etc.). After she set the receiver down, she came to join me on the sofa again. "So!" she said, jumping up again when it became obvious she'd sat on a yoghurt container.

"Yes?" I asked, taking it upon myself to brush the yoghurt remnants from her bottom, taking my time about it—and, I admit, taking full advantage of the opportunity to cop a feel, as the jeans were doing her backside a great justice. She didn't seem to mind at all, in fact, was quite liking it—

"Shall we have supper?" she said abruptly, heading back to the pasta, pouring the sauce on. Her telephone rang again. I admired her for ignoring it—at least, until a bleating voice rang out over the answerphone begging for B to pick up. She did. Exaggeratedly, I mimed slapping myself on the forehead, then ran my hand down over my face, feeling I should insist on disconnecting the phone…

It was Jude. I guessed that this had to do with a man, given the context of the conversation, and B insisting that all sorts of men had been ringing Jude up. I decided to get off of the sofa—doubted I'd get a snog in—and went to the table to examine our pasta dinner. I feared it was a lost cause. The pasta had obviously lost structural integrity, given the opacity of the water in which it rested.

Suddenly B was at my side, started to stir the pasta around. "I like it," I said, trying to be a supportive boyfriend, though I began to wonder if cooking fiascos only happened when I was around, or if she just ate takeout most of the time. "I like string. I like milk."

I think she knew it was a lost cause, too. Dejectedly, she said, "Do you think we'd better call out for a pizza?"

She phoned for pizzas; while we waited I offered to do the washing up and by the time they arrived we'd dispatched the inedible pasta. We ate them with more wine whilst sitting on the rug in front of the hearth. I unburdened myself about the meeting with the Indonesians. As always she had a wonderful, insightful take on the situation. She told me all about the meeting she had first thing (now, probably, as I write this), and I told her to stand her ground and decide what she wanted the meeting to be about rather than assume it was to be sacked. Give him other avenues to take.

"Oh, like the win-win mentality," she said with a spark of recognition in her eye.

"The what?"

"You know, from _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People_," she said, as if that were explanation enough.

The telephone rang again. "Leave it," I commanded. However, it was Jude again, hyperventilating that she had rung up someone called Stacey, who had not rung back.

B answered. "Well, maybe he's out," she advised.

"Of his mind," I said, resigned to just watch the football, "just like you." I looked for the telly remote as she shushed me, and found a game. Kind of a dull match. Couldn't help overhearing the advice-laden conversation—rubbish about stages of dating and springing back like a rubber band. I switched to another match, hoping to better put out the nonsensical conversation.

She sat beside me again. I glanced to her and grinned. "Rubber bands and win-win Martians. It's like war command in the land of gibberish here."

She looked indignant. "Don't you talk to your friends about emotional matters?"

"Nope," I said, changing the game back to the first. It was true; I could not recall when I'd had such a conversation with a friend. (Portentous, in hindsight.)

She spoke again, asking me a question that completely threw me.

"Do you want to have sex with Shazzer?"

Certain I'd misheard, I said, "I'm sorry?"

Firmly: "Do you want to have sex with Shazzer and Jude?"

I wondered what prompted this, and rather facetiously answered, "I'd be delighted! Did you mean individually? Or both at the same time?"

"When you met Shazzer after Christmas did you want to sleep with her?"

I guessed she meant when I met her _again_, since I'd first met her friend at the dinner party in November. "Well. The thing is, you see, I was sleeping with you."

"But has it crossed your mind, ever?" she pressed.

"Well, of course it's crossed my _mind_," I said, thinking of Tom's birthday dinner.

She exploded at that. "_What?!_"

"She's a very attractive girl," I said with another grin. "It would have been odd, surely, if it hadn't?"

"And Jude. Sleeping with Jude. Has that ever 'crossed your mind'?"

"Well, from time to time, fleetingly, I suppose it has. It's just human nature, isn't it?" It's not like I would ever _act_ on it.

"Human nature?" she repeated, as I took her back into my arms. "I've never imagined sleeping with Giles or Nigel from your office."

"No," I said quietly—thinking somewhat jealously: only that bloody actor in that bloody miniseries from last autumn. "I'm not sure that anyone else has either. Tragically. Except possibly José in the post room."

We pushed away the pizza plates and finally got to give her a long, proper kiss as we sat on the rug. Bloody phone began to ring again. Desperately I said, "Leave it. Please—in the name of God and all his cherubim, seraphim, saints, archangels, cloud attendants and beard trimmers—_leave it_."

However, I was in for a surprise. The voice that sounded out over the answerphone was male, and very familiar.

"Ah, hi. Giles Benwick here, friend of Mark's. Don't suppose he's there, is he? It's just…" The control over his voice cracked just then. "It's just my wife just told me she wants a separation and…"

"Good God." I had totally forgotten I'd given him her number. In a panic, I pushed myself up and reached for the phone. "Giles."

"Mark, I'm lost," said Giles, obviously sobbing now.

"Christ," I said, thinking of B's admonition of earlier about emotional matters.

"I don't know what to do."

"Steady on… um… ah…" My eyes went to B. "Um, Giles, I think I'd better give you to Bridget."

She took the phone, talked to him in a reassuring voice, gave some advice and a couple of… well, what must have been titles of books, I think. I was quite proud of her, actually, for her emotional triage of the wrecked Giles. When she ended the call, I took the phone from her hand, pulled out the cord from the base of the phone, then turned my attention towards her. I could get more information out of Giles later.

We made love there on the rug; afterwards we laid there in the quiet and I had a thought to blow out the candle in case we fell asleep. It was comfortable, it was warm, so it was a possibility.

As I leaned over, she asked me in a sleep-slurred voice what sounded to me like, "Am I a re-tread?"

Since I did not in fact think she could possibly mean a recycled tyre, I said, "A retard? No, darling." I ran my hand lovingly over her backside, then patted. "A little strange, perhaps, but not a retard."

Of course, this morning I wondered if she did indeed say 're-tread', but I didn't understand that at all, and I didn't want to ask in case it sparked insecurity that I really did think she might be one. I said my goodbyes just before eight, reminding her quickly about how to handle her meeting this morning. (I realise only now that I never mentioned meeting her friend at the drinks party.)

Must quickly shave and dress for work.


	8. Chapter 8: 28 Jan - 14 Feb

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

A reminder: typos and so on are all my fault.

* * *

**Chapter 8: 28 Jan – 14 Feb**

Tues, 28 Jan

_22.30_

Long day. On the way out the office, Giles invited Bridget and me out for supper, saying, "She was so nice and helpful last night." I said that I would, but gave him a tentative acceptance for her. I hadn't the faintest idea what her plans for the evening were, but didn't see a problem since we had been spending most evenings together, anyway.

I called her from the car on my way home. At her greeting, I said jokingly, "Hi, is that dating war command?" I heard another voice in the background. Curious, I asked, "Have you got someone there?"

"No, it's just the… Gary—a friend of Magda's," she explained stiltedly.

"What's he doing there?" She didn't answer, or if she did, I didn't hear it (spotty reception), but it didn't matter really—I'm sure it was nothing. "Listen, I'm in the car. Do you want to come out for supper tonight with Giles?"

"I've said I'll see the girls."

"Oh Christ," I lamented. "I suppose I'll be dismembered and dissected and thoroughly analysed."

"No, you won't…" she said.

Just then I headed onto the Westway, and said so. Nearly home. Remembered then about Barky Thompson's last night. "I met your friend Rebecca the other day. She seemed very nice."

Her voice sounded a little strange when she answered, but probably it was just the telephone reception which could be tinny at the best of times. "I didn't know you knew Rebecca." She said nothing more; at least, not that came through to my ear.

"Bridge?" I said, but she didn't answer. "Bridge, are you still there?"

"Where… where did you see Rebecca?" Her voice still sounded weird.

"She was at Barky Thompson's drinks last night and introduced herself."

"Last night?"

"Yes, I dropped in on my way back because you were running late."

"What did you talk about?" she asked.

"Oh. You know, she asked about my work and said nice things about you."

"What did she say?"

"She said you were a free spirit and that she was pleased you had found someone to make you happy." I'm not sure she heard me—bloody reception. "Well. I'd better let you go, hadn't I, if you've got someone there," I said, wondering again about this friend of Magda's. In fact, I wondered about who Magda was. "Have a good time. Shall I call you later?"

"Yes, yes, talk to you later."

With that the line went flat—I think I lost the connection—and I headed south towards my house, stopping long enough to drop off my attaché. Met Giles for supper and he seemed disappointed to not be able to thank Bridget in person.

It seems that his wife Veronica has been unhappy for some time. I recalled so long ago—just about year ago, as a matter of fact, after flipping back the pages here—that she had seemed a bit off and distant. Perhaps I had, on some level, recognised her unhappiness. (I sound like B.)

"I'm sorry," I said to him. "I'm sure things will work out for the best."

He didn't look consoled. "I haven't been to a Law Society Dinner without her in ten years," he said. "I won't know what to do with myself."

Bloody hell. In that moment I realised I had not asked B to attend with me.

I called as soon as I was home, but I didn't leave a message. She's probably still out with her friends, and I'd rather not leave a message asking this.

Weds, 29 Jan

_21.45_

Another meeting with the Indonesians, this one, all day—I was lucky I was able to break for food, never mind having a moment to call B. I just tried, but didn't get an answer. I hope she's not upset. I'll try again in a few minutes.

Thurs, 30 Jan

Finally reached B this morning. Told her about Law Society Dinner, and asked if she'd come with me. She sounded pleased to be asked, and agreed. I mentioned it was black tie. "Black tie?" she asked. "What… What's expected of me? Do I have to do anything special?"

I told her not to worry about it. "We'll just sit at a table and eat a meal with some people from work. They're just my friends. They'll love you." If Giles is any indication, they will.

Sat, 1 Feb

_12.30_

I am surrounded by a total and absolutely nightmare. Finally a moment to sit and write about it. I needed to call B first. After this, I'm going to sleep, then when I wake we'll have supper and I hope everything will be all right. It had better be.

The Law Society Dinner was interesting. In almost every way it was the most fun I've had in years, save for one aspect that… well, I'll come to that. B looked stunning, sleek in a long blue dress, though an initial mishap involving cosmetics was quickly resolved. Shortly after my arrival I bumped into Rebecca again, who expressed her concern that B might be nervous at her first dinner (as her friend, Rebecca would know, I'm sure). I could tell B was nervous—if applying grey eye shadow to her cheeks was any indication—so I said to boost her confidence, "Why would she be nervous? She's the embodiment of inner poise, aren't you, Bridge?"

B smiled at me. She looked better already.

Dinner was fine. I didn't see Giles, and surely he would have introduced himself to B had he been there. Probably he couldn't stand going without Veronica. We chatted as we do at these things, a bit dry and overly analytical at times. B she looked quite shocked though—to the point of quivering!—when she realised where my political tendencies lean. I asked her about why she voted Labour—I was genuinely curious to know—and her defensiveness and passion on the subject was adorable, if a bit idealistic and naïve. The culmination of it all rather showed us all up:

"The point is you are supposed to vote for the principle of the thing, not the itsy-bitsy detail about this per cent and that per cent. And it is perfectly obvious that Labour stands for the principle of sharing, kindness, gays, single mothers and Nelson Mandela as opposed to braying, bossy men having affairs with everyone—shag-shag-shag, left, right and centre—and going to the Ritz in Paris then telling all the presenters off on the _Today_ programme."

There was nothing to be said at that, and no one did—honestly I was quite proud.

The only downside to the entire evening was that every time I tried to slip my hand 'round her waist or otherwise get near to her, she would step away. I began to wonder what the matter was, if learning I vote Tory really made that much of a difference.

We only stayed long enough for the speeches. I wanted to get out of there, get her back to the flat, and work out if her apparent revulsion had all been a figment of my imagination. I noticed as we headed out that she had a strange shape at her midsection, and I indicated as such. She shot off to the ladies'. I wondered if I'd made a mistake, stood thinking there for a few, waiting for her.

"Everything okay?" It was Rebecca again. Nice of her to be concerned. "Where's Bridget?"

"Everything's fine," I said, nodding towards the ladies'. "Just on our way out, she needed to stop in."

"Such a lovely evening," she said with a sigh. "You know, you and Bridget should come 'round for dinner sometime!"

I thought it was very promising. I liked having one of her friends actually liking me. "I'll have to see if we can fit that in."

"Great!" she said. "I heard—"

She stopped—I saw B had returned. "Here she is," I said. "All sorted out?"

"Bridget!" said Rebecca. "I hear you've been impressing everyone with your political views!"

Oddly, B did not reply. I spoke up. "Actually, it was great. She made the whole lot of us look like pompous arses. Anyway, must be off, nice to see you again."

When we got out into the chill of the night, I was struck again how lovely she looked. I was glad we'd gone, and wanted nothing more than to get her home. As I drove, I slipped my hand onto her leg like I had many times before.

"Don't you want to keep your hands on the wheel?" she admonished, shifting in her seat.

"No," I said. "I want to ravish you." Playfully I made as if I were going to drive into the centre divide. Between this and her reaction coming out of the ladies'… she did not seem in a good humour at all. I'd hoped to elicit a smile, but had failed.

At some point I mentioned the invitation to dinner, then… I thought it would be nice to indicate I had taken an interest in her friend, so I complimented Rebecca's dress, even though I didn't think it remotely compared to B in her own. She was still quiet, until we'd gotten to Notting Hill and I turned towards her flat. Then:

"Where are we going?"

It startled me. "Your flat. Why?"

"_Exactly_," she said. "Why? We've been going out for four weeks and six days. And we've never stayed at your house. Not once. Not ever! Why?"

I was ashamed to admit the truth—liking her flat more, being embarrassed that the house was, for the most part, a mausoleum comparatively—so I indicated left and went instead towards my house.

"What's the matter?" she asked me as we drew nearer.

I felt like asking the same, but was still stinging too much, my nerves too raw, to want to talk at just that moment. "I don't like shouting," I muttered at last.

We got in. I got wine. I was so flustered and frustrated I could barely find the refrigerator—not that it's not well camouflaged, but finding the waste bin and the washing machine was not helping matters. B sat on a stool at the breakfast and looked as miserable as I felt. I found a bottle, put it in the wine bucket to keep it chilled, then took it over to where she sat.

"Look, Bridget, I—"

I stopped when she stood and put her arms around me. I washed over with relief; setting down the bucket, I made to do the same, but she pulled away.

"I'm just going to go upstairs for a minute."

I was baffled. "Why?"

"To the loo."

I watched her hobble off in her heeled shoes for the stairs. After a few minutes, after she disappeared from view, I decided it had all gotten far too ridiculous, and went upstairs after her. I found her not in the loo but in my dressing room, standing there in some kind of strange—and strangely sexy—undergarment. I admit to staring for a lack of a better thing to do or say. After a bit of a struggle to get out of the tight thing—

"Wait, wait," I said, as she reached to put on something. She had black pen markings all over her stomach. "Have you been drawing noughts and crosses on yourself?" She started to explain some kind of regimen at the gym but I shook my head. I felt too weary to go on. It had been such a long day even before the dinner. "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about. I've got to get some sleep. Shall we just go to bed?" Finally feeling things might at last be all right, I pushed open the door into the bedroom proper.

All hell then broke loose.

In the middle of my bed was a young man I have never seen before in my life. He was completely unclothed, holding out a wooden toy of some kind in one hand and a small rabbit in the other. Beside me B let out something that sounded like a shriek.

She raced away, slipped the dress back on and tore out of the house. I wanted desperately to run after her, but at that moment the youth began to scream too, and run around the room. I feared for his safety, mine, and the rabbit's.

"What's your name?" I asked in a placating voice.

"Neil," he said; rather, shouted.

I noticed Neil's clothes on the far side of the bed. On top of the clothes was a familiar ring of keys. It all clicked in that moment. They were the housekeeper's keys.

I then heard other voices, footsteps, on the stairs, shouting the boy's name. He looked even more agitated. He shot past me. More shrieking. More thumping down the stairs. I followed. There were what seemed at the time to be hundreds of Filipinos in the house, pleading with Neil to come with them, apologising to me. It was all such a blur, and I was already tired. I felt like I was in a war zone. Someone got the rabbit away to safety, at least (apparently one of the children's pets), so I called B on my mobile.

"Bridget. It's Mark. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. That was an awful thing to happen." She said nothing. "Bridget?"

"What?" Her voice was shaky.

"I know what it must have looked like. I got as much of a shock as you. I've never seen him before in my life."

"Well, who was he, then?"

I explained. "It turns out he's my housekeeper's son. I didn't even know she had a son. Apparently he's schizophrenic." The shouting got fevered again. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Oh God. Look, I'm going to have to go sort this out. It sounds like he's trying to strangle her. Can I call you later?" A loud scream and what sounded like a scuffle. "Hang on, just… Bridget, I'll call you in the morning."

I ended the call to discover that Neil had in fact attacked his mother and tried to strangle her with the toy.

Someone called 999. Tranquiliser darts were fired. Neil (and his discarded clothing) was taken to hospital by ambulance. The family begged me to take them, too (in reality, only four of them). His mother said they had noticed he'd gotten away, seen he'd taken her keys, and knew he was on his way here. (Apparently she sometimes brings him here when she's cleaning, and is evidently usually very well behaved… but he had stopped taking his medications.)

This ordeal lasted through the night, and I attempted to phone B again in the morning, but the lines seemed permanently engaged. I was exhausted, but determined to reach her. I managed to make a connection just before noon, asked if she'd like to have lunch so we could talk. I was willing to forgo sleep a little while longer if it meant I could see her to talk things out.

Her cool response broke my heart. "Um, I'm having lunch with the girls."

I could not help blurting, "Oh, _God_."

"What?" she returned.

I then explained the evening's events, concluding with, "I mean I'm really, really sorry you had to go through all that, but so did I… and it was hardly my fault." When she asked why I hadn't called, I felt like exploding in my frustration about trying and getting nowhere—but I contained that frustration. I hope.

After a moment's silence, she spoke; her voice seemed decidedly softer. "How about dinner?"

"Yes, that's good," I said. "I'm…" I yawned. "…going to lie down and sleep for a while."

We arranged to meet at seven at that little Italian place near her flat. I shall sleep a little easier, I think, knowing I'll see her later. Optimistic that we'll get it sorted.

Sun, 2 Feb

_21.45_

Relieved, more than words can say.

Had dinner last night, insisted B come by to speak with Analyn, and generally had a lovely time—especially as things got less awkward as dinner went on. I was still a little bothered by her behaviour last night, how she seemed not to want me to touch her. As we had dessert, I told her how it felt like things hadn't been quite right last night. She seemed to go pale, go off in a trance; my heart seemed to plummet. She then asked me why I'd felt that way. Decided to come straight out with it, how she was behaving as if I were some elderly letch.

At this she sighed, then started to chuckle. "It was the scary knickers," she said abashedly.

"Scary?"

She nodded, "The ones you saw me trying to get out of."

"The ones that I think may still be on the dressing room floor."

"Yes, those."

"How were they scary?" I asked. "You looked gorgeous in them."

She tinted pink. I suddenly felt like it was our first date all over again. "They're sort of… corset-y. I didn't want you to feel them through my dress."

I screwed up my brows. "Is that what the strange lump in—"

"Yes," she interrupted, but she was laughing. I laughed too. I felt a million times lighter.

I ordered us dessert wine, of which we drank a bit too much, then went to her flat and—well, rather like our first date, ended up quite promptly in bed. The noughts and crosses from her gym mark-up were still on her stomach, and I quite enjoyed tracing them over with my finger. She seemed to enjoy it too.

In the morning I woke at about 10.00 to find B had already gotten up and had, to my great fortune, spared me her patented thought vibes. What with the lack of sleep on Friday night, I must have needed a little extra. I roused out and found her making breakfast.

"Papers have come—come on, I've got them by the fire," she said. She had on her short, sheer little dressing gown, and as she turned towards me with a plate and coffee in hand for me, I could still see the pen marks on her.

On the plate were two fried eggs and a rasher of bacon that she'd arranged into a smiling face. I laughed as I accepted them, planting a kiss on her cheek.

We sat by the fire with breakfast and I asked, "So you tried explaining the marks on you but I wasn't understanding. What was this about a rebel and white spirit?"

She laughed. "The instructor's name was Rebel. He was trying to take measurements of me and had to make marks to do them."

"Rebel?"

"Mm, yes," she said. "We had a training session—rather like an extended, athletic round of sex."

I could tell she said it before she could stop herself. I said, also before I could stop myself, "_What_?!"

She laughed. "It was nothing, Mark. He was just showing me how to do all the exercises."

After we ate our breakfast, we read the papers (she took the _Independent_ and I took the _Times_). I noticed that even after she set the paper aside, she was silent, and seemed to be staring off into space. I realised that in fact she was staring at her new bookshelves (I thought they must be new, as I hadn't noticed them before). They looked like they had been put up by a mad person. I said, "What's the meaning of the new shelving system?"

She said nothing.

"Bridget," I said, a little more loudly. She looked to me, as if startled by my voice. "You seem to have gone into a trance. I was asking what was the meaning of the new shelving system. Are you meditating? Or is the shelf support system in some way Buddhist?"

"It's because of the electric wire," she said.

"What are all these books?" I stood to have a closer look, rattling off the titles of a few volumes. All of them had one thing in common….

"They're my self-help books!" she said.

I couldn't help wondering why she'd need any at all, particularly why she'd need _How to Date Young Women: A Guide For Men Over Thirty-Five_. "You do realise you're building up the largest body of theoretical knowledge about the behaviour of the opposite sex in the known universe. I'm starting to feel like a laboratory animal!" (At the time I said this all with a grin, but I have to admit the more I think about it, I feel more than a bit unsettled.)

"Um…"

I theorised that perhaps they were supposed to be read in pairs, but she insisted they were not. I then asked straight out: "Why on earth do you buy this stuff?"

Her face lit up with unholy glee, and she said, "Well, actually I have a theory about this. If you consider other world religions such as…"

"'Other world religions'?" I asked, afraid of what her answer might be. "Other than what?"

She gave me a sour look. "Other than self-help books."

"Yes, I thought you might be about to say that. Bridget, self-help books are not a religion."

She insisted that they were, or at least something to replace what organised religion (if it collapses) provides: a set of rules by which to live. "…if you look at self-help books they have a lot of ideas in common with other religions."

I asked which ideas. She looked panicked, as if never expecting the theory to be questioned. Apparently, they include: positive thinking; believing in yourself; living in the moment, and "that bit they read at weddings…: 'These three things remain: faith, _hope_ and love.'"

Believing in yourself. And forgiveness.

As she explained my expression must have moved to one of utter disbelief, or possibly I looked like I thought she was somewhat mad. The telephone rang.

"That'll be dating war command," I mused. "Or maybe the Archbishop of Canterbury!" She shot me a pursed-lip dirty look.

It was her mother. This I could tell from the familiar shrillness I could hear coming out of the earpiece, even from a distance. I could tell by the context of the conversation that her mother was insisting she do something she didn't want to do. I jokingly rolled up the _Times_ and tapped my watch, as we were supposed to go back to my house to meet the housekeeper.

When we got there, they—and by they, I mean the housekeeper and her extended family—were hard at work in the kitchen, where the bulk of the brawl had occurred. I introduced B to Analyn, who then introduced B and then me to her entire family in a tone that suggested an almost reverence. I felt a bit embarrassed, to be truthful, but this, I think, helped to dispel whatever ideas B had conceived about what had occurred last night. (I dare not speculate.) I pulled Analyn aside as B went to the toilets and asked did we have any of the little votive candles from my parents' ruby wedding party still left. She said that we did, so I asked if she could bring them up to the bedroom.

"I really want to make it up to her," I confided. "She was there when… I found Neil in the bedroom."

"Don't worry," she said with a wink. "Leave it to me."

I then took her out for supper at a nearby bistro (very cosy) and when we returned the entire family had gone, the house returned to its pristine state. "I don't even know where anything is," she said. "Aside from the bits where the party was… and your dressing room." So I gave her a quick show around then told her to hold on while I double-checked the room. It too was picture perfect, with a row of votive candles on the bureau and bedside table, red and each in their own little glass holder. Quickly I lit them, switched off the lights, then went back to get her.

"Big improvement, hm?" I said in a teasing voice.

She gawped at the candlelit room, then smiled as she looked up at me, reached up to touch my cheek, and as she kissed me I knew it would be all right.

Afterwards, after we decided mutually that the logistics for in the morning dictate that she should not stay over—namely, that I couldn't get her up early enough to get her home for her to get to work in time—I dressed again then brought her home. I would have preferred sharing the super king with me, but I understood the reality of it, and thought that well, she hadn't recoiled at the sight of my house in a non-party state, so she could stay as soon as this weekend, perhaps.

Mon, 3 Feb

First thing this morning I found out that I must go to New York for two weeks, leaving tomorrow. Summit on worldwide human rights. Was supposed to have been in March or April but got pushed up. Thank goodness I'm already prepared. (Unfortunately, I'm the only one qualified to handle it, so there's no sending Nigel in my place.)

Rang up B straightaway, feeling quite annoyed and disappointed—not at her, of course, but at the dreadful timing. She seemed to understand but naturally she was disappointed. She didn't say outright, but I could tell from the tone of her voice. It touches me that she's genuinely sad about it. My ex-wife or Natasha would have been furious, and would not have hesitated to lay on a guilt trip of massive proportions.

Must make Valentine's Day very special. More than just flowers and candy.

Weds, 5 Feb

_21.00_

_The Plaza Hotel, New York_

After travelling and resting yesterday, today began meetings and discussions. After dinner, I tried phoning B's home phone but forgot it is still during the workday there. Did not leave message. I'm not sure if I want to leave the number, because she's rubbish with the time difference and will probably try to ring back in the middle of the night here.

Odd coincidence tonight. Just I was leaving the dining room at the hotel, I ran into B's friend, Rebecca, who was at the bar. She's staying here (by that I mean in New York, in The Plaza) through Friday. She seemed very pleased to see me.

"And where's Bridget?" she trilled.

"In London," I said.

"She couldn't come?"

"Everything was so last minute…" I said, then trailed off. I could only imagine if B had come. She would have either been bored rigid in the hotel room, or gotten herself into trouble trying to see the sights.

"Understood," she said in a conspiratorial tone with a wink. "How long are you here?"

"Two weeks."

"Oh!" she said, clapping her hands. "We should have dinner or go to a Broadway show."

I told her that I appreciated the thought, but couldn't due to the intensely packed schedule I have while here. I then lamented, "I'll be here for Valentine's Day. I want to do something nice for Bridget for missing it, but can't think of anything."

Her eyes lit up. "In Bridget's place," she said, "I'd love to be taken to Courcheval." She looked a bit… well, almost demure, which was weird. "Now, I'm not sure if Bridget skis, but it's _so_ lovely…"

She gave me some details (written on a bar napkin) as she enthused how B would think it an absolutely perfect minibreak. I thanked her profusely. I loved the idea of a weekend ski getaway. Even if she doesn't ski, we can enjoy the place itself: the romantic atmosphere, the snow… and I could always teach her. Plus, I'm sure she'll enjoy the grappa.

I should probably suggest that B bring a ski suit. Better yet, borrow. Would hate for her to spend money on a suit she might not use again.

Mon, 10 Feb

Have got it all arranged: air tickets (hers and mine), reservation at the ski lodge, and flowers for delivery on Friday, with a card that begins, "Happy Valentine's Day to the light of my dreary old life," then gives instructions that unfortunately give the surprise away a little, but a ski holiday can hardly be a complete surprise. I am very pleased with myself.

Tonight, after a brief but highly embarrassing conversation with the concierge, I ventured out in search of something pretty to give to B for Valentine's. As directed I found the lingerie shop—tasteful and brightly lit, also occupied by several other furtive-looking men who were likely on a similar mission to mine. I was utterly confused by the sizing on the garments, and had a hell of a time trying to determine if they'd fit her.

There was another difficulty. Holding up each of the nighties, trying to picture her in them, was reminding me that it had been a week since I'd last seen B, that we'd last made love, and I was feeling the loss of her presence most acutely.

I settled on a red silk nighty. I really think she'll like it, and look gorgeous in it.

Thurs, 13 Feb

Upon arriving back to hotel this evening I was advised I had a parcel waiting. I brought it up to my room to discover inside was a chocolate heart with a note reading "Not to open till Feb 14th–xoxo." It immediately dissolved all tense feelings from the day.

Fri, 14 Feb

Wrapped up everything nice and tidily in New York, and I'm now en route to France after morning departure, New York time. Wanted to arrive in advance and get everything settled in and arranged (and find a ski suit for myself). Plus I wanted to be there upon her own arrival—she's flying into Lyon, too. I just hope she (and her pathological lateness) makes it to the BA ticket counter at Heathrow on time.


	9. Chapter 9: 16 Feb - 1 Mar

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

**HALFWAY!** Sort of. Thanks to all who have comments that I haven't replied to. Dealing with some RL stuff & am busy.

* * *

**Chapter 9: 16 Feb – 1 Mar**

Sun, 16 Feb

_08.00_

Well, I've gone and done it, and now only one thing could make me happier.

She arrived here to the resort yesterday at about noon, and I met her as the car arrived. She'd had no trouble at all finding the car at the airport, as the driver was holding up a big sign with her name on it. I was so pleased to see her I took her in my arms and held her for probably far too long.

We took her things up to the room and she seemed keen to get out on to the slopes as soon as possible. I would have been quite content to put it off, to be honest.

Once we were out there on the nursery slope, it became clear to me what was going on. She wanted to brazen it out, prove to herself (and me) that she could ski, but once up there she was immediately evident that she was petrified. She insisted that I go first, so I did. I waited for a bit—more than a bit, actually—then took the button lift back up to find she'd instead taken up residence at the mountain café drinking hot chocolate—and not the first, judging by the mugs on her table.

"Ready to come down now?" I asked as I skied up closer.

She shook her head, then motioned I come closer, and whispered. "It's too dangerous," she said earnestly. "Holiday insurance won't even cover it! I mean, it's one thing to have an accident you could not foresee, but another level altogether to willingly put yourself in such a dangerous situation… similar to bungee jumping, climbing Mt Everest, letting someone shoot apples off of your head…"

I stood there, transfixed, and realised—as she sat there with her adorable expression of determination—how much I truly loved her. "I take your point," I said after a moment, "but this is the nursery slope. It's practically horizontal."

"Still, I want to go back down on the lift." She pointed to it.

"You can't," I explained. "This type of lift, a button lift, only takes you up."

So I agreed to help her down, and it took us forty-five minutes of me pushing then racing around to catch her before we reached the bottom.

"See?" I said. "That wasn't so bad."

"No… but all the same, shall we go back down the cable car to the village to rest, and maybe have a cappuccino?"

Now that we were skiing, I realised how much I'd missed doing so, and wanted to carry on at least a little while longer. "The thing is, skiing is like everything else in life. It's just a question of confidence," I said, then smiled, thinking I had just the thing for her. "Come on. I think you need a grappa."

She had one, really seemed to love it, and when we returned to the top of the slope she went down in perfect style and confidence, grinning madly. In fact, I started to worry that she was a bit _too_ confident.

We took a rest at the mountain café, when a group came in, most of them vaguely familiar, like I knew them—and there, amongst them, was B's friend Rebecca.

"Bridget!" Rebecca said, as she came near and kissed B's cheek. "Gorgeous girl! How fantastic to see you! What a coincidence!"

I was completely confused. "Um, it's not really a coincidence, is it? You did suggest that I bring Bridget here. I mean, delightful to see you all of course, but I'd no idea you were all going to be here too."

B's expression was indefinable, and she said nothing.

"I know," Rebecca said, momentarily unsettled, but quickly recovering. "It just reminded me how gorgeous it is in Courcheval, and all the others were coming so…" She then lost her balance, and one of her group caught her, preventing her from falling over.

"Hmmm," I said, looking to my drink. I didn't know what was going on. I was annoyed that our holiday was being interrupted by their presence, and I wasn't happy about Rebecca's feigned ignorance, but because she is a friend of B's, I tried to hide it.

B then whispered to me, "I'm going to just have a little go on the nursery slope." She then dashed off towards the button lift before I had a chance to do or say anything, and she was already on the lift when I realised she had not put her skis back on.

The group was yelling and waving to get her attention as I ran towards her, shouting, "Bridget, you've forgotten to put your skis on."

She looked to her feet, horrified. Then—in a move far more dangerous than skiing the nursery slope—she jumped off of the button lift and into a (thankfully) tall snowdrift. I ran up to her in a panic. She was covered in powdery snow and looked embarrassed. She said nothing; I said nothing. I just helped her brush off the snow, and as I did, we caught each others' eyes and started to chuckle. It was really a ridiculous scenario.

As we returned to the café I heard Nigel laughing. "Bloody fool," he said. "Stupidest thing I've seen for years."

"Do you want me to stay with her?" asked Rebecca with concern. "Then you can have a good ski before dinner."

"No, no, we're fine," I said. I was a bit annoyed at Rebecca's tone, to be honest, that she was treating her friend like a child who needed looking after, plus I was here to be with Bridget, not to be skiing… though the idea did appeal more than I wanted to admit.

"Actually," said Bridget calmly, "I need a rest. I'll just have a hot chocolate and recover my composure."

Taking this as permission to have a ski, I smiled, strapped my skis on, and went to the lift. It seemed clear to me that she just didn't want to be fussed over anymore, and understood I wasn't abandoning her to enjoy one last run.

Suddenly, though, Rebecca was at my side. "Thought I might have a quick ski, too," she said. "Hope you don't mind if we ride the lift up together."

"That's fine," I said, probably more coolly than I should have.

As we rode, she touched my arm. "I'm glad you're getting to ski, despite the fact that Bridge doesn't," she said. "Probably I should have suggested somewhere else—I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. We're having a really nice time," I said. I was, and not because of the skiing.

"But it's such a pity," she said, "since you're so good at it."

I muttered a 'thank you', but said nothing more. Then the lift got to the top, and I—we both—skied down.

Upon arriving down to the café again, I went straight to where B sat nursing her chocolate. Rebecca invited us to torchlight skiing and dinner, but I said, firmly and abruptly, "No. I missed Valentine's Day, so I'm taking Bridget for a Valentine's dinner."

Rebecca looked—Angry? Irritated? Disappointed?—for a moment then went away, wishing us a fun time. Perhaps she had really been looking forward to dinner with B, but I was not going to relinquish my girlfriend to her friend for a belated Valentine's Day celebration.

"When did you see her?" B asked me, bringing me back to the present, standing there with her poles and skis. "When did she suggest Courcheval?"

I hadn't wanted to mention her involvement at all, but now the cat was out of the bag. "She was in New York." She visibly reeled in shock, and dropped one of the ski poles. I couldn't help chuckling. I picked it up, then gave her a big hug—clearly, inexplicably, ridiculously, she was jealous and had no reason to be. "Don't look like that," I said close to her ear. "She was there with a crowd. I had one ten-minute conversation with her. I said I wanted to do something nice to make up for missing Valentine's Day and she suggested here."

I heard a squeaking sound issue from her. I decided to jump in just then, with both feet.

"Bridget, I love you."

I heard her breath catch, then she reared back and looked at me with wide eyes. "Oh Mark," she said, then kissed me full on the mouth, there in the middle of the mountain café. No trace of her previous insecurity remained.

We then went back to our room and tidied up for dinner. I saw as we were about to depart that she had a wrapped present with her. I was uncertain about exchanging gifts in the restaurant, and said so.

"Oh, don't worry, it's fine," she said. Of course, she had no idea what her present would be. I brought it anyway.

We then went down to find we practically had the place to ourselves. We ate in front of a large picture window with a gorgeous view of moonlit slopes, the mountains beyond dotted with the lights of faraway houses. It was so serene and beautiful—and I almost didn't notice any of it until she pointed it out to me, because we were having such fun together, making up for lost time, saying again and again how we'd missed each other.

We did our exchange of gifts after eating. She gave me a key fob and boxer shorts (both NU), which I liked very much—obviously she had put thought into seeking out my favourite football club. Then I gave her the wrapped box from me. It looked a little worse for wear from the flight—not that she seemed to notice, or care.

"It's very light," she said with a grin, slipping a nail under the sellotape at the side of the box.

"Be careful," I said.

She tipped the top up. Her brows raised, then she turned her blue gaze to me. I could tell she was smirking behind the box lid. "Very nice."

I realised in that moment two things: 1) that we hadn't made love for nearly a fortnight and 2)—very much because of 1)—I wanted very much to see her in the nighty as soon as humanly possible.

I paid the bill, then we went back to our room. I took her in my arms and kissed her. I was about to ask her to change when she said, indicating the box, "How about I put this on?"

Nighty in hand she went into the toilet; I undressed, folding each article as I took it off, as a way to calm myself. I lit a few candles and pulled back the sheets just as she emerged.

"It's a bit—" she began, pulling the lower edge down.

I don't know what she was about to say, and it doesn't matter. I was so overtaken by how gorgeous, sexy, desirable she looked that I couldn't control the impulse to… well, pounce upon her.

I hadn't realised quite how much I'd missed making love with her—I mean, I _had_, obviously, but once we began it struck me how severely I'd missed her. After the fact, as she laid snugly in my arms, I began to babble about everything I'd done whilst in New York. She offered her thoughts and unique opinions about how I'd handled my work there, which comforted me to end.

"Unique?" she asked.

"Mmm, yes," I murmured, kissing her again. "Just like you."

Now it's morning—I'll go wake B up in a bit and see about breakfast, and about our day. To be honest, it would be perfectly fine with me if we don't ski again.

The only thing that would have made me happier was to have heard B say, "I love you too."

Mon, 17 Feb

Weekend was wonderful. So why am I completely focused on the fact that B's mother treated me in such a dismissive manner? Saw her as she was returning from Africa, all done up with braids and batik, and carried on as if I weren't even there. I'm not sure why this bothers me as much as it does—maybe it's because she had once seemed so keen on B and me. I don't know. Can't be that we're sleeping together, B and me, can it?

Tues, 18 Feb

Inexplicably, Rebecca turned up at my work today. Suddenly she seems very friendly with everyone in chambers—must have made friends with them in Courcheval, and she is a very friendly girl. "I'm _so_ glad you had fun," she said, "even if you didn't get to ski that much." Before I could respond and say that skiing wasn't really my goal, she went on: "Having a house party out in Gloucestershire, at my parents. Love it if you could come." After a pause, during which she slipped me a printed invitation, she added with a giggle, "And Bridget, that goes without saying! And all the gang." Nigel, who was in earshot, agreed enthusiastically. I told her I'd have to let her know, but I was keen; she seems to be the only one of B's friends to want to include me in things. "Okey-dokey, then! Be sure to bring a swimsuit!" As she was leaving, she turned and added, "You know, if Bridget doesn't want to come, you're welcome all the same!"

I rung up B as I'd planned, but got the answerphone. Left a message to tell her about the late night I was sure to have with Amnesty and the Indonesians again, asking her to let me know about the football match tonight (how it goes, etc.), then added a bit at the end about the house party with Rebecca. And that I'd call later.

When I did call later (just a few minutes ago, on her mobile, since she said she'd be at Sharon or Jude's flat), it was immediately evident that she hadn't watched the game. Well, she said she had, but they'd been talking and hadn't seen how things had gone. I groaned a little. It wasn't that important in the grand scheme, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit disappointed.

"Listen," I said, "do you want to go to Rebecca's?"

She hesitated, then said definitively, "Yes."

"Oh, great," I said. "It'll be fun, I think. She said to bring a swimsuit."

She said nothing in response, and then we said our goodbyes. In retrospect, though… bringing swimsuits in February? Surely that is more than a bit unusual.

Sun, 23 Feb

The peril of being in love is that the smallest actions have the capacity to cause the greatest injury.

We were having a perfectly lovely time mingling with other guests out in the country. It was sunny despite the damp, so coats and wellies in place, we went for a walk 'round the garden. B fell behind, so she (and Rebecca's nephew, St John, with whom she had seemed to form a fast friendship) ran to catch us up. Watching B coming towards us with abandon reminded me yet again why I adored her so—I mean, I couldn't picture Rebecca running like that!—and I put my arms around her. "What have you been doing? Smoking like a naughty schoolgirl?" I teased, close to her ear. I could, after all, smell the faintest hint of smoke.

"Let's go inside," said Rebecca, interrupting the moment. "Nearly time for dinner."

My desire for B got the best of me and the moment our room's door was closed I took full advantage of our privacy. Then we dressed for dinner—black tie, which seemed a bit much to me—and I was seated not by B, but by Rebecca. Pretty standard for a formal dinner party, to get people to mingle. I would have preferred to sit by B.

After dinner Rebecca asked me to help take the pool cover off. I glanced to B—it seemed a bit strange to want to go swimming at eleven in the evening in late February—but she said nothing, so I agreed to help.

We were nearly to the pool when she seemed to realise she'd forgotten something in the dining room, so asked me to come back with her. When we went in I was horrified by what I saw:

The nephew, arms around B, kissing her.

"Oops!" said Rebecca. "Sorry!" She pulled shut the door. I was too stunned to react—I know now I should have gone back in and demanded an explanation, but it cut too close to the old wound of finding Daniel Cleaver with my ex-wife. "That's Bridget for you," Rebecca said. "I suspected St John had a bit of a crush on her, but never thought she'd encourage it!"

I went back to the room, poured myself a scotch, drew a hot bath, and climbed in. I needed to give myself time to think and calm down. Maybe it had all happened too fast. Maybe I shouldn't have said 'I love you' so soon into our relationship—not even two months. Maybe it scared her. It hadn't seemed so at the time, but what if I hadn't seen it because I hadn't wanted to? And then what Rebecca had said—

I heard her come into our room, but she didn't enter the bathroom. When I came out, I found her sitting primly on the bed in her nighty.

"It was not what you think," she said.

Drink in hand, I began to pace about. "No? Had you a marble stuck in your throat, perhaps? Was St John being, rather than the trust-funded teenage layabout he appears, actually a top ear, nose and throat surgeon attempting to extract it with his tongue?"

"No," she said, with tremendous dignity, given her attire. "That is not what it was, either."

"Then were you hyperventilating?" I went on. "Was St John—having garnered the rudiments of first aid into his marijuana-addled brain, perhaps from a poster on the wall of the many drug rehab units he has visited in his short and otherwise uneventful life—trying to administer the kiss of life? Or did he simply mistake you for a choice morsel of skunk and find himself unable to…"

She started to chuckle. I did too. The more I thought about it the more ridiculous it seemed. I sat with her on the bed, kissed her, and was completely comforted by her responses and responsiveness. Afterwards we fell asleep, curled up securely in each others' arms.

However, this morning, when I awoke, I realised I still had no real answers about what I'd seen. To occupy myself, I got dressed. Shortly after I had, B woke up, and sat upright. "I can explain," she said in an overly dramatic tone. I stared at her. We started to laugh again… but I wanted a real answer, and I composed myself.

"Go on, then."

"It was Rebecca. St John told me Rebecca told him that I told her I fancied him and…"

I'm sure I blinked, trying to comprehend. "And you believed this bewildering catalogue of Chinese whispers?"

She went on. "And that you told her we were…"

"Yes?"

Sheepishly: "Splitting up."

I sat on the edge of the bed again, rubbing my head. It was all so unbelievable—clearly the invention of a skunk-addled teen in order to get into her pants. And to think she had really believed it.

"Did you?" she whispered. "Did you say that to Rebecca?"

I didn't answer right away. I was too busy thinking of what Rebecca had said, my own ponderings from the night before, and now this. The fact that she had to ask if I'd say such a thing, when only last weekend…

"No. I didn't say that to Rebecca, but… but maybe we…" _Were moving too fast._ I couldn't finish my thought. I didn't want anything like splitting up, or taking time apart, or having a break.

"Do you want to split up…?" she asked.

A knock on the door interrupted our conversation. Rebecca, last call for breakfast. I rose. "Come on," I said in a very even tone, trying not to betray my feelings. "You heard what she said."

She quickly dressed; we went and had breakfast, then packed up our things in total silence and headed back for London. She was unreadable. I did not know if she was asking about splitting up because she wanted to, if she didn't feel for me what I felt for her, so we didn't speak at all.

I stopped outside of her building. She said, "Well, bye then."

Not even an invitation up. I did not look away from the steering wheel in front of me as I said, "Bye."

As soon as she was out of the car, I whipped round to head back towards my house. I felt a tear suddenly on my cheek, which I wiped away lest she see.

After a few hours at home deep in thought, I considered that maybe I had overreacted, that I was reading more into her behaviour than I should have. That she had, in fact, been as surprised by St John's actions as I had. After all, we'd had a nice time in Courcheval, and there hadn't been anything insincere to me in anything we'd done together. The more I thought about it, the clearer it is to me than ever that I've overreacted—and for what possible reason could B be interested in young St John? It'd be like showing interest in my cousin Simon, only worse.

I tried to ring her up, but the phone just went on and on, as if she were not at home and the answerphone was off. I got the impression that maybe she was avoiding me.

I am not going to obsess that she's avoiding me. She's probably just gone out with her friends.

Mon, 24 Feb

Tried ringing again. Left message, said I'd try again later. Tried mobile, went straight to message, as if battery was dead (again). Did try again later, but lines seem permanently engaged.

In retrospect I should have asked her to just ring me back.

Tomorrow night, football match. Oh, mustn't forget about five-a-side on Wednesday. And I've been asked to return to New York, more of the same with Amnesty and the United Nations. Open ended. Leaving next week. Once I've gotten things with her all settled, I'll mention it to B. Maybe she can even come with me.

Tues, 25 Feb

It was in the middle of the tensest moment of the match that my telephone rang. I picked it up, barking, "Yes?"

Silence, then: "It's me. It's Bridget."

I'm afraid that I was a little too harsh, told her I'd call back, hung up again, but I blame it on my heightened excitement due to the match. I should really have taken the call, especially given the way the game went.

My mood was dark, but I had made a promise to rang back afterwards, so I did. First the line was engaged, then I got the answerphone. Left message, then rang again. Miracle of miracles, I did not get answerphone or the engaged signal. She answered.

"Sorry about earlier," I said. "I'm just really down about it, aren't you?"

"I know. I feel exactly the same."

She must have switched on the game to watch the end, the devastating end. "I just keep thinking: why?"

"Exactly!" she said. Felt immediately better; felt all would be well.

"So stupid and unnecessary," I went on. "A pointless outburst with devastating consequences."

"I know," she said in sympathy.

"How can a man live with that?" I asked rhetorically, thinking how a match could turn so quickly.

"Well, everyone's only human," she said tenderly. "People have to forgive each other and… themselves."

I made a dismissive sound. "It's easy to say that, but if he hadn't been sent off we'd never have been subjected to the tyranny of the penalty shoot-out. We fought like kings amongst lions, but it cost us the game!"

She made a strange burbling sound, and then there was a silence, a lengthy silence, to the point where I finally asked, "Bridget, what's the matter? It's only a game. Even I can see that. When you called me during the match I was so caught up in my own feelings that…. But it's only a game."

"Right, right," she said.

"Anyway, what's going on? I haven't heard a peep from you for days," I said, then joked, "Hope you haven't been snogging any more teenage…" Unfortunately, the television caught my attention again, analysis and critique of the match. "Oh hang on, hang on, they're playing it back. Shall I come round tomorrow, no, wait, I'm playing five-a-side—Thursday?"

"Er… yes."

"Great, see you about eight o'clock."

Weds, 26 Feb

Great match tonight. Must do this more often.

Thurs, 27 Feb

Angry. Upset. Disappointed. And perhaps I hadn't overreacted at all.

This morning, I made the mistake of opening some mail that had accumulated during my absence, those things I'd previously sorted and deemed inconsequential. Perhaps it was not so much a mistake as a warning klaxon. I had in fact opened a card—what appeared to be a Valentine's card!—intended for B, signed "S" with a row of "x" kisses.

I brought it with me to her place, went in and didn't kiss her, didn't even say hello, just took note of the new haircut (very nice, but why? For whom?) and handed her the card as I walked past to sit on her sofa. "It's been in the in-tray since I got back. I opened it this morning by mistake. Sorry. But it's probably all for the best."

She pulled the card out and looked at the front.

"Who's it from?" I asked, really rather quite calmly, though I was boiling inside.

"I don't know."

"Yes you do," I said, equally calmly. "Who is it from?"

"I said I don't know."

"Read what it says."

She opened it, stared at it for too long before her phone began to ring. She reached for it, but I stayed her hand.

The answerphone boomed out:

"Hi, doll, Gary here. Right, what we were talking about in the bedroom—I've got some ideas so give me a ring and I'll come round."

My head began to spin; I blinked to clear my vision. Gary? Bedroom? I stared at the floor, then ran my hand across my face. "Okay. Do you want to explain?"

"It's the builder," she said. "Magda's builder, Gary. The one that put the crap shelves up. He wants to put an infill extension between the bedroom and the stairs."

"I see. And the card is from Gary as well? Or…" I thought about Gloucestershire. "Is it St John? Or some other…"

Her fax machine, next to which I was seated, began to go off just then. What came through then was the last straw: an advert for a sex toy with crude scrawling declaring, "Who needs Mark Darcy when £9.99 plus P&P will buy you one of these?"

I was wounded beyond description. And furious. She'd talked about everything with her friends before bothering to talk to me. I rose from the sofa. "I'll call you when I've calmed down," I said through gritted teeth, then left and came straight home.

Sat, 1 Mar

_08.30_

Last night I worked late to take my mind off of the fact that I was still angry about Thursday evening. As I was leaving the office, who should I run into but Rebecca?

"Mark, you look distraught!" she said, placing her hand on my forearm. "What's the matter? What's wrong?" When I didn't say anything, she pursed her lips, almost as if in understanding, then asked in a serious voice, "This is to do with Bridget, isn't it?" She made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Adore her to bits, but her free-spirited ways…" The words clenched my heart, reminiscent of my meeting Rebecca back at the drinks party. She'd been right, hadn't she? "Anyway. Why don't you come out for a drink? I'd be happy to lend an ear."

I agreed, even though I hadn't had proper supper, but I wasn't particularly hungry.

I had my car, but she hailed a minicab before I could think to suggest it. Plus, if I were going to have a drink…. "Come now, loosen up," she said with a smile. "You're not at work—take off your tie."

"You sound like Bridget," I said ruefully as I slipped the knot and pulled it from around my neck.

She laughed—almost hesitantly. "What about your shirt buttons?"

It did look a bit stuffy to have my shirt done all the way up, so I undid the top two.

"That's better," she said.

We arrived at our destination, almost close enough to have walked, and the service and the cocktails would turn out to be forgettable. "So," she said as we got out of the taxi, laughing again (this time almost a little too gaily), "what has that naughty Bridget done this time?"

It made me think instantly of St John. It wasn't until we were inside that I began to explain about Gloucestershire and what St John had said I'd told her about B; Gary and the secret admirer's Valentine's card. (I left out the bit about the fax—that was just too humiliating.)

"Oh, Mark, you poor thing," she said with sympathy. "I wish I could say this surprises me, I really do." I wasn't sure to what she was referring, but she went on to explain. "It's not that she _means_ to hurt people, but… it's just in her nature to act without thinking of the consequences." She sighed. "I used to really admire that when we first met almost a decade ago, but out every night with friends, very few responsibilities… it's not the right lifestyle for any man who wants a mature, sophisticated woman. She hasn't grown beyond it."

This was not helping at all. She seemed to sense this.

"It'll be fine," she said brightly. "You can always be friends if things don't work out, right?"

I took a sip of my drink. I was not sure then that I could only be 'just friends' with her—watching her take up with Gary or 'S' or whomever. Since Rebecca lived somewhat near to me, we agreed to share a taxi. Just before we left (Rebecca had diverted to the ladies'), I decided I had to ring B up even though it was already almost eleven—I thought I'd rather be friends than not have her in my life at all. She either didn't pick up or didn't want to talk to me. I left what was probably an incoherent, rambling and certainly stilted message—wondering why she didn't return my calls, wanting to let her know I felt I owed it to her to at least still be friends, asking her to call soon if she wanted to. I probably sounded like a fool.

When we got to Rebecca's I got out of the taxi too—I'd gotten so warm I'd undone another shirt button, and the moment I stepped out into the night air I regretted it. She was telling an amusing story, smiling and laughing, in an effort to cheer me up, and kept on talking until we were both standing there outside the taxi, traffic rushing by. (There's always a lot traffic in London, it seems, no matter the time of day.)

"Thanks for listening," I said.

"You're welcome, but remember, you can only do so much," she said, then smiled and turned towards her building.

I'll have to go for my car in a bit.

_Later_

If I sleep tonight, it will be a miracle. I guess there's no reason now for me not to take the New York job.


	10. Chapter 10: 5 Mar - 21 Apr

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 10: 5 Mar – 21 Apr**

Weds, 5 Mar

En route over Atlantic to New York City. Very early morning flight. Plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts; perhaps if I write them down they'll stop rattling around in my head.

…

Sunday morning (2 Mar) I called my mother. Haven't felt I've needed to talk to her nearly as much as I used to before I started seeing B. I told her about what seemed to me to very much be getting chucked by B. She was quiet, thoughtful.

"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding," she said. "Did you ever ask her about Hong Kong?"

I had not asked B about flying to Hong Kong for the wedding. I had been so wrapped up in what had seemed to be the perfect bubble of our relationship that I had completely forgotten about Peter's wedding. I felt like a terrible brother.

"Well, have to go," she said. "Your father and I have lunch with friends. Let me know where and how to get hold of you in New York."

"I will."

"And Mark," she said, "chin up, okay?"

Easier said than done.

…

Thinking I could catch her before work, yesterday morning (Tuesday), I rang B at home to tell her I was going to New York, but I only got the answerphone. Took a deep breath, and left a message to say I would be going, concluding with, "So I guess it really is goodbye."

A bit too pathetic perhaps, but if I could indicate in some small way—I had a small hope I might get a ring back from her, asking me not to go—begging me to stay. I got no such call. And here I am, all on my own in first class, travelling backwards in time, the sky going dark again around me.

…

Now I've had a few cocktails I think I can put this down in a relatively straightforward manner. What happened on Saturday. Here it is.

I waited as long as I could stand for her to ring me, so I called about ten in the evening. She picked up. We said 'hi' to each other. I thought she sounded eager, even pleased to hear from me.

"Did you get your message? I mean my message?" Goddamn bumbling fool.

I could hear voices in the background. Her friends? I suddenly felt doomed.

"Yes," she said snippily. "But as I got it minutes after I saw you emerging from the taxi with Rebecca at 11 o'clock at night, I wasn't in the most amenable of humours."

My thoughts were in a whirl—not that I had done anything wrong, but how had she seen me? From where? What had she been doing in Covent Garden at that time of night and not at home as broken-he? Out with friends? With Gary? With 'S'?

"Bridge," I said after what was probably too long a pause, "why do you always have to jump to conclusions?"

Weird muffled sound, then, "Jump to conclusions? Rebecca's been making a play for you for a _month_, you chuck me for things I haven't done, then next thing I see you getting out of a taxi with Rebecca…"

Chuck her? "But it wasn't my fault, I can explain, and I had just called you."

"Yes," she said hotly, "to say you owed it to me to be my _friend_."

"But…"

I heard her take in a deep breath. "Owed it to me? Honey… I don't need anyone in my life because they _owe_ it to me. I have got the best, most loyal, wise, witty, caring, supportive friends in the world. And if I _were_ to be your friend after the way you've treated me…" She trailed off.

"But…" How I'd treated her? I'd been upset at the snog. I'd been upset at the Valentine card/Gary/vibrator fax trifecta of horror at her flat on Thursday night. I had given myself time to cool off. Had that been mistreatment? "What way?"

"If I was still to be your friend…" She paused—it felt as if she were holding a knife into my side, twisting relentlessly—then said, "you would be _really_ lucky."

At this point, I admit it—I felt all fight rush out of me. There didn't seem to be any right thing to say, and she was clearly both slightly pissed, and being egged on by her friends. The tittering in the background made that clear enough.

"All right, you've said enough. If you don't want me to explain, I won't pester you with phone calls. Goodbye, Bridget."

I hung up without waiting for a reply. I'd intended my voice to be firm, cool, dispassionate. I'd bet that instead, I only sounded resigned.

…

About to land and reclaim a good portion of the hours of the day lost to flight.

Fri, 7 Mar

Took it easy today. Jetlag plus hangover is not a great combination. Had supper with friends from when I was living here. They asked if I was seeing anyone new. After a pause, I had to answer honestly with a 'No'.

Part of the mystery is solved, though. About how and where B saw me with Rebecca in the taxi. In speaking with my mother this morning, she said in the middle of something else altogether, "Pam told me all about it, as if I had the power to make you sit on the naughty step or something."

"What?" I asked; I think I'd spaced out a bit. "About what?"

"They were all packed into Geoffrey and Una's Range Rover, apparently, leaving _Miss Saigon_ on that Friday and saw you getting out of a taxi with some young woman, when you'd told Bridget you were working. I think Pam was going to tell me on Sunday but—"

Working? And… "Sunday? What was Sunday?"

She didn't say anything for a long time, and when she did I got the distinct impression that she had meant not to. "Our lunch this past Sunday was with the Alconburys at… the Jones house," she admitted, then added. "Bridget was there."

"She was?" I asked. It would have been the day after we'd split. "How did she seem?"

"First tell me why on earth you told her you were working on a Friday night."

"I never said any such thing," I said. "She never told me about the show. Everything went to hell the week after that weekend in Gloucestershire, at her friend Rebecca's."

"Rebecca?" My mother is a clever woman, and asked immediately, "Is that who you were with in the taxi?"

"Yes, but she was only lending a sympathetic ear. I promise you."

After a moment, my mother said, "She seemed really put on the spot. Bridget, I mean. Like she wanted to be anywhere but there. I tried to be sympathetic and supportive, even gave her a few Sobranies to get her through the drive back to London…" She trailed off. My mother and B, united in bloody cigarettes. "Underneath it all, though, she seemed sad."

I didn't quite know what to say. I doubted that B had been 'sad' so much as 'hungover'—she and her friends probably continued drinking after she'd talked to me. Chucked me.

After that we said our goodbyes. I tried not to think about the conversation too much, but of course I did. I thought my mother was probably right, about Pam wanting to confront her and my father on Sunday. For what other purpose could Pam Jones possibly have had a luncheon in which she invited everyone who'd likely been in the Range Rover… and the parents of the betrayer-who-said-he-was-working?

Why hadn't B told me about _Miss Saigon_? I doubt I would have cared to attend but… had she even then decided

Better stop before I get myself all worked up, all over again.

Mon, 10 Mar

Rather surprised to see Natasha in attendance today. Given that she practises family law, I was not expecting to see her turn up. Although we worked—work?—in chambers together still, we hadn't crossed paths in some time, mostly after I had… well, chucked her is the best way to describe it, even though it feels crude to say. Especially since most of the relationship aspect of our association was in her head.

It was, oddly enough, she who approached me to chat. Rail thin and mannishly suited as always, she also wore a short haircut that attempted something slightly more feminine than the one I'd known her to wear before. I'm still not sure it was successful. "Hello, Mark," she said coolly.

"Natasha, hello," I said. "What brings you here?"

"I'm on an international committee regarding children's rights. We're presenting on Thursday."

"Well, it's nice to see you."

She smiled a little, if tersely. "You don't have to lie."

"It's not a lie," I returned. "I don't hate you, you know." Hate is too much of an emotional investment. I was indifferent.

She resumed her cool demeanour. "So how are things with you?" she asked, then wasted no time getting to the point. "Still seeing the bunny girl?"

Her reference to B in that way both incensed me (the bitchiness factor) and saddened me (as I recalled how sexy she'd looked). "Her name is Bridget," I said. "And no, actually. We've split."

"You'll pardon me if I don't express enormous amounts of disbelief," she said with high levels of snark. "I never did think she was on your level."

"For your information," I said, "it was not by my choice."

"It hardly matters," she said, sipping her wine. She then saw someone who could offer her a more profitable conversation, and waved a goodbye as she glided away.

Natasha was right in a way. It didn't actually matter that B had been the one to do the chucking. I was still alone.

_04.00_

Right in another way. B wasn't on my level. B was far above.

Tues, 11 Mar

Bloody insomnia.

Sun, 16 Mar

Very busy week.

Natasha's group's presentation on Thursday was very interesting and informative, and despite my annoyance with her I accepted the invitation of one of her co-presenters to join them for dinner (co-presenter, Adam, was a likeable fellow with whom I seemed to have a lot in common). Of course, Natasha installed herself next to me (now that my name was being bandied about as a foremost expert in international human rights) and took every opportunity to leverage our previous acquaintance for the attention. I wish I could say this is uncharacteristic behaviour.

I keep feeling like I am forgetting something important.

Wed, 19 Mar

Dammit.

_Later_

Dropped this journal and in picking it up, I flipped back to entries from January of this year. Couldn't help reading, and felt very isolated and lonely, and missing B more than ever. I came this close to throwing the whole thing in the bin, except I'd hate anyone to find it. If I smoked, I might have touched a match to it. Cooler heads have prevailed, though. I still need a place to vent a bit, in the hopes that I won't need to go back on the pills.

Thurs, 20 Mar

Dinner again with Natasha and her group. Much like on Sunday, with Natasha at my side. I was grateful Adam was on my other side, in what felt like some sort of sanity balancing act.

As soon as Natasha left for the ladies, Adam leaned near and over the din of other conversation asked me how long she and I had been together. I sighed (a bit heavily, I fear) and told him (in far too weary a voice) that we were not in fact together, despite her best efforts.

Adam chuckled. "Sorry for assuming."

I couldn't help it—I started to chuckle too, and God, it felt good to do so.

I thought then that maybe he was asking because he was interested in Natasha, so I offered, "As far as I know, she's not seeing anyone, so…"

"No, no," Adam said, laughing again. "Not my type."

"Exactly," I said, and it was then she returned. We both straightened up and stopped laughing, as if she were a professor who'd just come back into the classroom. I turned slightly to face him, and face away from her. "So, what about you?" I asked. "Do you live in London, or…"

"London, yeah," he said. "You too?"

I nodded.

"What a coincidence we should meet here, then," he said.

It was strange, but it's not possible to know every legal type in the entire city of London. "It is," I said. I thought of my limited social life: five-a-side, squash, mostly with my colleagues. There was Barky Thompson's for drinks but mostly the same faces turned up there, too. "With work, I don't get out socialising much. So it's hard to meet people."

"I know what you mean," he said. "I—"

At that point Natasha bulldozed her way into the conversation, so I have no idea what he might have said.

The rest of dinner was quite pleasant, and as dinner broke up, I managed to break free of any possible clutches in which Natasha might have grasped me, and began the very short walk back to The Plaza (I think most of the England contingent is staying there). I heard a voice behind me say, "Hey, Mark."

I turned around and I let Adam catch me up. We walked in synch.

"Made a successful escape, I see."

"She's tenacious," I said.

"Can't take a hint," he said.

"She at least knows her stuff," I said. "Professionally speaking."

He nodded; I could see it in my peripheral vision. "Without her direction on the project we'd have been a rudderless ship."

I thought that totally believable. In fact, I thought it likely she had wrestled control of the group if it hadn't already been hers.

Already The Plaza was in sight. "Early day tomorrow," I said. In fact, I was supposed to moderate a discussion, first thing.

"Yes," he agreed. "And a long one too."

We stood by the lifts then, as we stepped in, he said, "You know, tomorrow after this is all done, want to have drinks? Might be nice to chat without the watchful eye of…" He trailed off, nodding toward the door, through which Natasha came just as the lift doors closed. "You know."

"I do, yes," I said. I thought about it. Might be nice to have a friend while I'm here. Then I said: "Sure."

Fri, 21 Mar

_06.00_

It's hit me, what I've forgotten. It's B's birthday today.

Maybe I'll call No. I'm not going to disturb her when she plainly does not want to hear from me.

Time to shower and slip into my professional mask to moderate the discussion of sovereignty's role in human rights.

Sat, 22 Mar

_10.00_

Afraid to admit it, but a bit hung over.

After the conference concluded for the day, I decided to strike out on my own for a walk to sort out my thoughts, and find something to eat. I had just passed West 57th Street when I glanced to my left and found myself face to face with a huge window filled with beautiful, elegant women's jewellery. I was drawn inside, and within a few moments an attentive saleswoman was at my side.

I walked out of there with a necklace in hand (not literally—in a carrier bag). God knows what I'm going to do with it. I mean, aside from giving it to B at some point like a nutter ex.

Ended up wandering into a Greek place, had a fairly excellent meal, then wandered to The Peninsula Hotel to meet Adam for drinks. (I assumed this was an attempt to evade Natasha.) Like myself, he was prompt, and we planted ourselves at a table.

"About another week of this," said Adam as the first round was served.

"Mm," I said, taking a sip from my scotch. I hadn't given much thought to the end of the conference, which coincided with the end of March. That meant going back, and I wasn't sure I was ready for that just yet. As much as I love being at home in London, the wound was just too fresh. Too much would still remind me of B. "It's going well."

"It is," he said. "Heading straight back to Old Blighty?"

I took a second, longer sip. "Haven't decided yet. Yourself?"

"Flight back on Saturday afternoon. The 29th, I mean."

I nodded. "Always wise to give yourself at least a day to readjust to the time difference."

"Monday morning'll hit like a ton of bricks, otherwise."

"I'm grateful for a more flexible schedule," I said. "I've got the partners already handling my cases."

"Lucky."

We talked a bit more, ordered a second round, our conversation light and comfortable, but that didn't stop my alcohol-fuelled moroseness from settling in, missing B, missing the way we'd talk about our days and offering perspectives on our difficulties; settling in gradually until—

"You okay?"

Looked up to him. I guess I'd been radiating the melancholy more than I'd thought; the alcohol had weakened the reserve I'd been using to keep it from showing. I smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said, leaning back in the chair, polishing off another drink. "Just hit me this morning that today—well, today's important to someone who means a lot to me."

"Oh," he said. "And I take it this is someone—"

"We don't currently speak, no," I said. "But it's all right. I'm sorry to put a dark cloud over a nice night out."

"It's okay," he said. "It is a nice night out, isn't it?" It wasn't really a question, more of a statement.

I shouldn't have, but I ordered another drink, and so did Adam. We were both sort of pissed by this point, there no denying that, but at least we weren't driving.

"So I'll give you my contact info," he said, as we partook of round three. Possibly four. "When you're back in town, I'd really like to see you again."

It took me a moment, through the fog of the booze, to discern what he might have meant. I sat up again, parroted rather stupidly, "See me again?"

He smiled. "You don't have to seem so surprised," he said, his expression indefinably soft. "We have good chemistry and get along very well. Why wouldn't I want to see you again?"

It was the first inkling I had that perhaps the evening had meant different things to each of us. To me, an evening of relaxation in the company of a fellow Briton. To him… a date.

"I think…" I said. "I think there's been a misapprehension, Adam."

"Oh," he said, looking deflated. "You mean you don't think… you and I—"

"Oh, we do very much get along well," I said, interrupting. "I just—" Everything that popped into my head seemed a trite cliché. Then I just said, "Today was Bridget's birthday."

He brought his brows together. "Bridget?"

"My ex."

He blinked a bit, then flushed scarlet, and ran his hand over his face. "God. I assumed that when you said…" He trailed off. "I'm so embarrassed."

"When I said what?"

"That when you said Natasha wasn't your type," he said in a sheepish tone, looking at me again, "I thought you meant because she was a _woman_."

At this I laughed. Short and sharp, like a shot. "No, no," I said. "Because she's—" I thought of one of B's sayings. "—a bitch queen from hell."

That really got us laughing.

"I am _so_ sorry," I said to him as our laughter wound down. "I never meant—"

"No, no," he said, waving his hand. "All water under the bridge. Still no reason why we can't be friends…"

He said more, but my brain fixed on the word 'bridge'—Bridge. Bridget. The moroseness washed over me like a flood and I slunk back against the chair again.

"Sorry. Sorry." Adam seemed to realise his misstep. "Do you… I don't know. Want to talk about it? I'm a pretty good listener."

In that moment, the one thing I realised I hadn't done was actually talk to anyone about what'd happened, and my lowered inhibitions urged me to do just that. I started from the beginning and went through to the phone call just prior to my departure to New York (including the nightmare trifecta). It took me long enough that when I'd finished, I'd actually started to feel a bit sobered up.

"And you're absolutely sure," he said, chin thoughtfully resting on his knuckles, "that this Rebecca person wasn't trying to pinch you?"

"I'm sure," I said. "It's pretty clear to me that Rebecca's very fond of her friend, always speaks with great affection of her…. Everything with which she'd accused me had an innocent explanation, but Bridget chose not to listen."

Adam gave me a sidelong glance, then said, "What about St John, Gary, the Valentine card and the—" He couldn't hold in a laugh. "—fax? Sorry. What did she have to say about all of that?"

I did not reflect back on this with a lot of satisfaction. "We never got a chance to talk about it. I mean, she said that the snog with the boy was all him—"

"Because he said you had told Rebecca about breaking up," he interrupted. He had an astonishingly good memory for details.

"Yes. And given the look on her face she hardly seemed an eager participant, so I was willing to chalk it up to the boy lying." I paused to think. "I did joke about it, even, but then all that happened with the card… then she didn't return my calls, or the phone was engaged, or unplugged or something. Until we did eventually talk, and…"

"She chucked you." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mark."

I'd given it my best shot, and I couldn't make her listen to me. I communicated this with a shrug.

Then we were hailing a taxi and riding back to The Plaza, waving goodnights and tottering off to our respective rooms. If I hadn't still been half-pissed, the events of the evening might have kept me awake.

Tues, 26 Mar

Have just realised it's Easter next Sunday. I had totally forgotten.

Natasha seems to have calmed down in her fruitless pursuit of me. In fact, she said in a rather haughty manner that she had already garnered the interest of another man (presumably a better one than poor old me). I told her I was pleased for her and left it at that.

Later today, though, given her expressions and gestures, I realised that the 'better man' was Adam. I wanted to laugh out loud at the levels of delusion she was capable of achieving. Of course, I said nothing. Adam's preferences are not mine to broadcast, and it's much funnier letting her go on in her state of delusion. I may have to let Adam know, however.

Thurs, 28 Mar

Nigel has rung me up and asked, since I am already here, would I take on another job in New York. I've agreed.

Sun, 30 Mar

_10.00 am_

Rang up my parents and brother (last night, due to time difference) to wish them a Happy Easter. Had pleasant conversation with my mother, who is, as always, overly concerned about me, wondered if I was all right and not too lonely. Told her work was keeping me quite busy, and judging from the brief that Nigel faxed over, this will continue to be true. She says she's worried I'm filling the time with work because I miss B., am heartbroken and unable to handle it. I denied it, but actually, she is probably right—after all, I'm here, aren't I? We skirted around actually talking about how B is now. I do wonder how she is, though.

As far as camaraderie goes, I will miss having Adam around; it was nice to have a friend even if we didn't do much (had one last dinner on Friday before he returned home).

Feeling a little homesick. Actually wanting some hot cross buns.

_Later_

Found a bakery that had some. Also managed to have a supper that did not involve ham.

I must attempt to go to bed early, for tomorrow bright and early is a meeting. No Easter Monday for me. (Not a holiday here.)

Sat, 5 Apr

First week of new job has been very interesting. I can't write much about it here, but there are striking similarities to the Elena Rossini case, and my expertise with that has been especially useful.

Insomnia remains, though I've gotten very good at functioning on very little sleep.

I just realised I have been in New York for a month now.

Tues, 8 Apr

Had a bit of a shock this evening. Telephone began to rang, which I picked up. Only a few people had the number here, so I thought whoever it was, I would probably need to pick up.

"Mark? Is that you?"

It was a female voice, one that I recognised as familiar even if I hadn't yet placed how. The connection was not terrific. My heart leapt into my throat, thinking that maybe it was B. "Yes," I said. "Who's this?"

In the split-second after I asked, I realised—"It's Rebecca."

"Rebecca?" I instantly shifted into thinking of worst-case scenarios. Why would she be calling me here?

"Yes!" she said.

I asked the first thing that came to mind: "Did something happen to Bridget?"

There was a moment of utter silence, then she said, "No, of course not!" with a little chuckle that sounded a bit rough. Immediately I realised the error of my thought. Why would Rebecca be calling for that? Surely my mother would know first. There was also the question of—

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Nigel," she said. I should have guessed; after all, she'd made friends of most of them after Courcheval. "I just wanted to see how you were doing—you took off so abruptly after… well. I don't want to dredge that all up again. Are you all right now?"

Her sympathetic tone was assuring. "I'm doing very well, thanks."

"I am so glad to hear that," she said. "So when are you coming home?"

I considered the case for a few moments then said, "At least through the 20th. It all depends on how the case goes."

"You simply _must_ let me know," she said. "I would love to have a dinner party to welcome you back."

The possibility of returning to a dinner party with B in attendance made me very happy—maybe after a couple of months had passed we could talk like rational adults and work towards a reconciliation. It was a generous thing for her to offer. "I would really like that," I said.

"Fantastic. I'll make sure everyone comes."

Everyone. For the first time I am actually looking forward to returning home.

Fri, 12 Apr

Awful to think that the last time we had sex was ten days short of two months ago if memory serves and I think it does. Had I known it was the last time I would have cherished it more. Miss her so very so much. Miss her soft skin, silky hair, that lovely scent of _her_ mixed with vanilla or flowers or something, so indefinably and inarguably _her_ it breaks my heart to think about

Sat, 13 Apr

It does not do to journal whilst drinking. But, there it is, evidence that I am in fact only human.

I am reluctant to I admit drinking and journaling is not all that happened last night. Thoughts of B… overwhelmed me.

Mon, 15 Apr

_07.45_

Up early for meeting. I have a feeling the homestretch (wrapping up this case) is going to keep me quite busy.

Mon, 21 Apr

As I was saying. But now I can concentrate on the final details… and preparing to head home.


	11. Chapter 11: 24 Apr - 10 Jun

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

I promise it's _total coincidence_ that today's chapter talks about an election! :) And oh yeah, US residents: **VOTE!**

* * *

**Chapter 11: 24 Apr – 10 Jun**

Thurs, 24 Apr

There's a newsagent not too far from here that carries a wide variety of international newspapers. On occasion, since I've been here, I've picked up the occasional London _Times_, but also noticed that they carried a few other London papers (with, unfortunately, a day's delay).

I happened to go down there to see what kind of coverage _The Times_ might have given to the massacre in Algeria as well as the situation in Peru regarding the Japanese ambassador when my eyes fell upon a copy of _The Independent_. I thought I was dreaming.

There, on the cover, was a mention of an interview inside of the actor Colin Firth—by a "Bridget Jones." Now, I know that B was a big fan of that bloody mini that made my life somewhat difficult whilst it aired, especially a big fan of that actor, but it seemed too incredible that she had launched an interviewing career in the intervening time since I'd seen her last.

I bought both papers then returned to my hotel to read them. By all rights, by the nature and importance of the other two stories in which I was deeply interested, I should have read _The Times_ first.

I opened up _The Independent_, instead.

The interview inside was not actually an interview, but rather printed as a direct transcript of the conversation "due to insuperable technical difficulties"—I laughed, because this was probably a really nice way of saying she had turned in her written interview too late to make press time. (Oh, I knew it was her from the first few lines. It was more than obvious. Only B could so horribly misinterpret the phrase 'spawned a confessional genre'.)

I read through the entire thing and laughed with tears in my eyes, both at how utterly and ridiculously funny it was (although unintentionally, I'm sure), and how well it captured her personality and spirit.

I do admit to a bit of jealousy, though I know it's really the fictional character she's mad about. Why she'd fancy a stiff, boring, taciturn character like that one is beyond my understanding.

Fri, 25 Apr

It's all arranged as of this morning; I'm going home, arriving early on the first—fortunately I'll have plenty of time to make it to the polling station. Once the details were settled, I rang up Rebecca to let her know as she'd asked.

"Wonderful!" she said. "I'd already planned a small post-election thing on that Saturday, so I can just change focus to welcome you home!"

So I've got an election and a welcome home dinner to look forward to.

Tues, 29 Apr

Spent the weekend doing a little last minute shopping, dining with friends, and packing up my things for the long flight home—ran across the necklace that I bought for B, which made me smile. I hope I can give this to her sooner rather than later.

Thurs, 1 May

Home, London. Did my civic duty, then went home to a wonderfully fresh and tidy house courtesy of Analyn. Rang up my mother to let her know I'd made it home safely. Had a lie-down, but not too long, as it's always best to reacclimatise to the local time as soon as possible.

Have had on the telly most of the night since I woke to follow the election returns, and the results are startling. All signs point to a Labour victory. We'll see what the morning brings, though.

Fri, 2 May

I guess B was right, because it seems that indeed "everybody votes Labour." At least this election they have. Though, knowing her… she probably mislaid her voting card.

It's probably a good thing that Rebecca changed the focus of her party tomorrow. I can't imagine the majority of her invitees would be feeling all that celebratory.

Sun, 4 May

_10.00_

Perhaps the Labour upset was a dark omen. Last night's dinner party, held at Rebecca's flat, was pleasant enough. Rebecca welcomed me with a rather more affectionate hug than I was expecting, pressed a martini into my hand and told me to make myself at home… though between visits to the kitchen, she was so attentive to me it made me a little nervous. I'd been the first to arrive, and felt my heart leap into my throat every time another guest arrived, followed by plummeting disappointment that it wasn't her. I wanted to speak to B as soon as I could, if for no other reason under the guise of giving her a belated birthday present (nestled in my pocket).

(As an aside: I can only imagine that repeated visits to her kitchen were to unpack the catering containers (which I saw upon venturing into that room in search of wine) while still giving the impression that she'd done it all herself; later I would overhear her being asked if it had been Delia Smith, but she denied it. Struck a sour tone with me: admit you catered in and move on. Pretending one has slaved all day cooking when one has not is pointlessly deceptive and pretentious. B never would have done such a thing—exhibit A: blue soup.)

About thirty minutes after my arrival, I approached her and asked about when she thought B might arrive.

"Ohhh," she said with a sympathetic tone. "Well, I asked of course, but she said she couldn't come." She lowered her voice, looked sad. "In truth, I got the sense she meant she _wouldn't_ come."

If not for the fact the dinner was meant to welcome me back to London, I might have gone home. I thought back to Rebecca's greeting at the door, and wondered then if she had even then been trying to offer comfort.

It was not long after that blow that one of B's other friends, Magda, arrived with her husband, both of whom I was pleasant towards. Dinner was good, and not unexpectedly most of the political conversation was either complaints (between people who were political allies) about the direction in which the country was heading, or nothing at all.

I was one of the last to leave, shortly after midnight. I tried to leave a little sooner—the time zone change still hadn't quite settled in—but she seemed so eager to keep me engaged in conversation (maybe to keep my mind off of B's not wanting to come), I felt it rude to break away and leave.

Stayed up half the night, unable to sleep, pondering things. Did she care so little for me now that she didn't even want to see me, even as a friend, after two months apart?

Sat, 10 May

Natasha was completely insufferable this past week, trying to convince me that she and Adam were seeing one another. I have had a few calls from Rebecca to see how I am.

Spent my afternoon overexerting myself playing five-a-side, then the evening with Chinese takeaway and _Blind Date_.

Tues, 13 May

Had two messages upon arrival home from work. One was from Magda, B's friend (and Rebecca's friend too, as she was at the welcome home party), asking if I'd like to come to her daughter Constance's third birthday party next month, the 21st of June.

The second was from Adam, touching base to say hello, welcome home, and did I want to meet for cocktails?

I rang back Magda immediately and, between exclamations of potty prodigy, managed to convey to her that I would love to attend. I had only exchanged the barest of conversation with her at the party, did not really know them well (or their daughter at all), but if there was a chance B would be there, I would happily attend.

I then rang back Adam, and agreed to meet for drinks at nine at the Savoy. He was there before I was—which made me laugh, since I didn't think there was a person in the world more punctual than me.

"Just wanted to say welcome home," he said as we raised our glasses for the first time, "and goodbye."

"Goodbye?" I asked, utterly perplexed.

"I've been offered a job out of town," he explained. "San Francisco."

"That's…" I was about to say 'fantastic', and it was fantastic for him, but it seemed a bit poorly timed, as we'd only just become friends.

"Far away, I know," he said with a grin.

This made me chuckle, and I explained what I'd just been thinking.

"We can keep in touch," he said. "This whole email and web thing… it's going to be big, I think."

"Of course," I said. "You know I wouldn't begrudge you such a fantastic opportunity."

"Oh, I know," he said.

I had to ask, even though I was sure I already knew: "How did your girlfriend take the news?"

He laughed out loud. Glad he hadn't been taking a sip, or else it might have ended up all over the table in front of him. Or me. "Not well, especially when I told her it was with an international gay rights group. Think it might have finally sunk in that I wasn't interested."

Didn't stay out too late, though. Work in the morning.

Fri, 16 May

Was watching a bit of telly tonight when I heard someone ring the bell on the door. I wasn't expecting anyone, so I was a little confused as to who it might be… as well as hopeful that it was B come by to see me.

"Hiiiii!" It was Rebecca, wearing an expression (and surrounded by an air) of over-cheerfulness. She came into the house, slipping out of her light jacket. "I was nearby and thought I'd stop in." Before I had a chance to ask she added, "That darling Nigel gave me your address when I asked. How are you?"

"I'm doing all right," I said. "And you?"

"Wonderful! But worried about you." She took my hands in hers, slipping from cheery to concerned in a matter of a moment. "You seemed so down at your party, more than warranted by the election results. Then when we've spoken by phone… I just wanted to come by and see if there was anything I could do."

"I'm quite all right, but I do appreciate it," I said, stepping back. "Would you like something? Coffee, perhaps?"

"Oh, I would love a glass of wine! White if you have any."

We went to my kitchen, found the fridge (with minimal effort, though effort nonetheless) and I opened a bottle of chardonnay; Rebecca took a seat on a stool at the breakfast nook. It made me think of the night at the Law Society Dinner—that awful night with Neil and the baby rabbit—when we'd come back here under a cloud: me frustrated trying to find the fridge, then opening the wine; B sitting on that very same stool, looking morose and fussing with her cuticles. I only kept chardonnay for B.

I brought the glass over. "There you are."

"Thank you," she said, taking the glass from my hand. "What's on your mind?"

I went back and poured myself a glass too. "I was just wondering if you've seen Bridget again since you asked her about the party."

There was a split second of an indefinable look before her features moved into sympathy. "Oh, I saw her out with her friends, as usual," she said. "Smoking, drinking and dancing with a string of men, I'm sure, until the wee hours."

I took a long sip of my wine.

She covered her mouth with her free hand. "Sorry," she said quickly. "My big mouth. I didn't mean to say…. Let's stop talking of this. Tell me how your time in New York went. Did you accomplish what you set out to do? Oh, silly me; of course you did!"

We did talk for quite a while about the two months I spent over there; she seemed genuinely interested and had a lot of thoughtful questions. It reminded me of all of those evenings B and I would talk about our work days, when she would offer her opinions about mine and I, of hers. I wondered if there would ever come a time when I wouldn't automatically compare everything to something we used to do.

I kept my features free of my discomfort. Rebecca was trying to be a friend, and I didn't want to cause her concern. "Well, I should probably go," she said, rising from the stool, giving me a long look.

"Appreciate you coming by," I said. "I'll see you out."

Sat, 17 May

I have picked up a habit since coming back from New York earlier this month, one which I am not particularly proud to admit (and why I have not mentioned it before): I have gone out of my way to pass by B's building, nearly every day, in an effort to reassure myself I did not, in fact, hallucinate our entire relationship. Sometimes it's whilst driving home. Other times, I'll decide to go for a walk for some fresh air and find myself on her block. We don't live that far apart, and my subconscious is trained, I think, to go there.

It actually had been something of a wonder we hadn't bumped into one another, seen each other. Before today, I mean. I think on some level I'd been hoping to see her. Disappointed I had not. I hadn't seen her in the flesh since the end of February, nearly three months ago. When I did see her—

B was sitting with her back towards me on the front step of her building. There were two babies (one obviously a little older than the other) in a twin pushchair; standing on the step was a little girl of about two or three. All three children were crying/screaming bloody murder. B had a splotch of wet on her shoulder. B leaned forward to pull out something from the bag—a tissue, as it would turn out—to wipe off the older baby's face then push a dummy into his mouth to get him to stop crying.

Then she started to sing. I recognised the song as being a very popular hit from a few years back. I don't know if the children were entranced or perplexed by her singing (it sounded quite lovely to my ears); nevertheless, they all went silent.

She finished a verse; I gathered up my courage and approached. As I did she launched into the second verse, leaning in close to the dummied baby. She then went instantly silent.

"Hello again," I said, which was nearly drowned out by the child's screaming again. B then turned to face me, and I could not rein in a look of confusion: the dummy was now planted firmly in her mouth.

She spit the thing out into her hand, rising slowly to her feet. I could not quite discern her thoughts. I expected brusqueness or even total ice given our last telephone encounter, given that she had declined the invitation to my welcome home dinner. I did not expect a sort of wide-eyed curiosity, as if I were a spirit made manifest. "They're Magda's," she said, referring to the children, I assumed.

"Ah, I thought it was all a bit quick," I said, striving for a light tone, and probably failing miserably. "Or a very well-kept secret."

I thought I saw a faint hint of a smile but it was gone when she turned her head at the sound of the little girl asking, "Who's that?"

"I'm Mark," I said, since I wasn't sure how she would respond… or _if_. It clicked in that moment that this must be Constance, to whose third birthday party I was invited next month. "I'm Bridget's friend."

"Oh," said the girl, equally wide-eyed.

"She's got the same expression as you, anyway," I said. "Can I give you a hand upstairs?"

She nodded.

B took the baby and the bags, and held Constance's hand, while I hauled the pushchair and carried the other child, called Harry, apparently. Into the building we went, and I realised instantly that something was off. B encouraged Constance forward, and I said soothing things to the until-recently-screaming Harry in the hopes he would not begin again.

I quickly noticed there was a small group of people ahead. Police constables were emptying the contents of the hall closet onto a nearby chair. "Evening, miss," said one. "Had a complaint next door about a smell."

That's what the 'off' had been: the utterly wretched smell, which got worse the closer we got. I wasn't sure what possessed me to do so, but I decided to take action. (Actually, I do know. Protective instinct.) "You take the children upstairs," I said to her in a low tone as I pressed Harry into her free arm. "I'll deal with this."

I set the pushchair aside and watched them make steady progress upstairs. "I'm a lawyer," I said, watching the two constables—one dark-haired, the other ginger—rifle through the personal possessions of her building's occupants. Silence. "What is it that you're looking for? What sort of report had you received, and what makes you think Miss Jones is involved? Is there—"

"Ha," interrupted the dark-haired constable (DHC), as he stopped looking through the holdall he had in his hand. "Pardon me sir," he said to me, then both of them dashed around the corner and up the stairs.

I followed, arriving upstairs in time to hear DHC ask, "Could we ask you a few questions?" He held in his hand a polythene bag, in which appeared to be a slab of some kind of meat. I had a terrible suspicion forming about what had happened. (Okay, not terrible given the possibilities. Just a likely suspicion.)

She stood from where she had taken a seat with the children. A video was playing. I recognised it vaguely as Pingu the penguin. "As I said, I'm a lawyer."

B's telephone rang at that moment. "Shall I get that for you, miss?" This from the ginger-haired constable (GHC), who did not wait for B to answer before picking up the receiver. A look of horror passed over his face, and he thrust out the phone to B.

It was her mother; I had heard that voice enough times in just such a manner to know this as irrefutable fact. This was quickly confirmed when B said, "Mother, when I came down for lunch, did you put anything in my bag?" Silence, then quietly building, silent frustration/fury as her mother went on. Also not unfamiliar. "Hold on," B said, then handed the receiver back to GHC, or tried to, but he wouldn't have it. DHC took it instead, and listened intently as presumably her mother explained exactly what had happened.

(My suspicions were close: I thought B had gone shopping and had forgotten it in the holdall—the polythene bag should have been a dead giveaway that the meat hadn't been store-bought.)

When the call ended, DHC still looked sceptical. "I don't know," he said. "Awfully fishy timing. Maybe we should take this for DNA analysis, bring you for questioning…"

Constance began to cry. B picked her up to console her. In that moment of tenderness I loved B more than ever, seeing her with that child—

Instead, I decided to break the tension of the moment with a friendly clap on DHC's shoulder and a laugh. "Come on, boys. It's a couple of pieces of fillet steak from her mother. I'm sure there are better things you could be doing with your time."

The two constables exchanged a glance, then DHC said, "OK, Miss Jones, just keep an eye on what your mother puts in your bag in future. Thanks for your help, sir. Have a good evening." Nod to me, then to B. "Have a good evening, miss."

As they departed, I realised I didn't know what to say, and didn't think I should stay. It was already awkward—talking only to the children and the police, but not each other. As my gaze swept the room, I noticed a giant piece of polythene covering up what appeared to be a gaping hole in the wall; unrelated to my thoughts, but it delayed my immediately following the police out of the building. "Enjoy _Pingu_," I said stupidly, then dashed out.

(Why in the world is there a hole in the flat wall? How long has it been like that? How could that possibly be safe? I confess to thinking of her comment re: the security guard piece at the Saatchi, to keep away prowlers.)

Sun, 18 May

Was feeling very low all last night and into today, very down and lonely. Of course, I was at the nadir of my feelings when my phone went off this afternoon. I can often expect work-related calls well into the evening (and even on Sunday), so I pulled myself together and answered. It was my mother. I tried to keep composure as we talked but not two or three minutes in, she was on to me. The fact that we were chatting about my brother's upcoming happy nuptials did not help my mood, I guess.

"Mark, what's wrong?" she asked in a solemn voice.

I did not have the quick wit required to deny it, or the fortitude not to answer. "I saw Bridget yesterday," I said.

"Oh," she said, one syllable that said so, so much. "Mark, do you love her?"

"Yes," I said, feeling as if a weight had lifted from me.

"Then talk to her, for the love of God," my mother said in exasperation.

I told her that I didn't know what to say.

"Say what you feel. Be honest about your feelings."

"But what if—"

"What if she doesn't feel the same? Then what have you lost? Nothing."

By the time I disconnected the phone I felt like I could conquer the world. I immediately should have picked up the telephone and called; now, though, my confidence has deflated.

Tues, 20 May

Leaving on the first for a week in Hong Kong for Peter's wedding. Wish I were bringing B with me. I would love to have seen the city through her eyes. I wonder if she's ever been to Asia?

Anyway. I'll keep busy until then.

Weds, 21 May

Rebecca dropped by again to see if I wanted to come out for supper with her. I agreed—better than eating alone. We had a nice night. Excellent food, French. Hadn't been before.

As we ate our meal, I realised that Rebecca seemed to be going out of her way to avoid talking about B. I _wanted_ her to tell me, though, how B was doing if she'd seen her, so I said, "By the way, I saw Bridget on Saturday."

She coughed on her drink a little. "Did you?" she asked in a strained voice, slightly red in the face (due to the coughing, I think). Then, hesitantly, "And… how did that go?"

"It went well," I said. Well as could be expected, anyway. "She was minding Magda's children and we bumped into each other in front of her building. With the children though we didn't get to talk much." I didn't want to get into the whole fillet steak aspect of the story.

She seemed to be thinking about what to say next. "Well, that's good then, right?" she asked at last, and very cautiously. She reached and put her hand over mine, squeezing a little. "You can be friends, and you can move on as she has."

I nodded a little, though I doubted it would take me a lot longer than this to move on.

Sun, 25 May

Have had supper twice more, then lunch today, with Rebecca. She's been a good friend. I told her about my brother's approaching wedding, which somehow hadn't come up before. "Oh, how thrilling! St Paul's? Where's the reception? Claridge's?"

"Oh, no," I said, laughing a little. "It's in Hong Kong."

"Oh, I adore Hong Kong!" she said brightly.

"Yes, it's a very beautiful, very interesting city," I said, thinking of my one previous trip to visit just after Peter moved there. "I'll be there almost a week, so I'll get to see more of it."

"You're travelling by yourself?"

I shook my head. She looked confused. "My parents and I are flying out together on the first of the month."

"Of course you are!" she said, smiling, sounding almost relieved. "I would love to meet them sometime. They must be wonderful people to have raised a son like you."

In this we were in agreement.

Fri, 30 May

Have my parents settled in a guest room. As we planned, they came up today while I was at work, for our early Sunday flight. I ended up staying at work a little longer than I had expected, but not so late I needed to phone home to let my mother know. She's not particularly fussed if we're not promptly to table the moment dinner's ready.

I was confused when I came in through the front and heard voices—more than just my mother's and father's—chatting from the dining room area. I went in and found my mother laying down the silver while my father was talking with an excessively pleased-looking Rebecca. My mother, on the other hand, looked very displeased. I'm sure I'd hear why later.

"Rebecca's staying for supper," my mother said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I came by to see you, just as they were arriving," Rebecca said. "What a coincidence, since we were just talking about that yesterday! Or was it the day before?"

"Sunday," I corrected.

"Do you spend a lot of time here, Rebecca?" my mother asked.

"Oh, not too much," she said modestly. "But you know, that's what friends are for."

"It's nice to think you're looking out for my boy," said my father.

"She's also a friend of Bridget's," I said.

My mother lifted one brow. "Is that so?" She turned towards Rebecca. "And how is Bridget doing?"

"Well, I haven't seen her recently," Rebecca said. "She has a lot of friends, though."

"That doesn't surprise me," my mother returned, in almost a tart tone, which was unexpected. "Bridget's a lovely girl." She turned to me. "You got home just in time. I'll just get supper."

During our meal my father and Rebecca chatted quite a lot, while my mother and I said hardly a thing. I knew she was observing. I merely had nothing to add to any conversation about boating and the sea—which is always my father's go-to subject.

"We must do this again sometime," said Rebecca at the end of it all, looking to me. "Dinner tomorrow, maybe?"

"We have to have an early night," I said. "Flight is first thing."

"Lunch, then."

"Oh, yes, quite," said my father.

"Sounds lovely," said my mother in a tone that I knew meant she did not think it was lovely at all. I was at a loss.

When Rebecca left, my father fell head first into the newspaper. That's when my mother broached the subject: "Friend of Bridget's, then, is she?"

I nodded. "That's how I met her. She was practically the only one of her friends who had the slightest interest in me."

"I think she has interest in you, all right," she said. "Some friend."

"It's not like that, Mother," I said.

"And the taxi ride? Wasn't _she_ the one?"

"She was," I said impatiently. "But that, too, was nothing but drinks between friends. Why is everyone prepared to accept the worst from me?"

Her expression softened, and so did her tone when she spoke again. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said, placing her hand on my upper arm reassuringly.

"That gal's nice," my father opined suddenly from behind his paper. "Though how you keep finding these birds with such an obsession about sea life is a mystery to me."

Mon, 2 Jun

_22:30 local time_

Long flight; slept most of the way thanks to the miracle of modern medicine. My parents and I are now safely arrived in Hong Kong, and ensconced in our hotel rooms. Beautiful as always, though there's a charged atmosphere in the air, as this is the last month of British rule. I doubt there'll be much change in the daily life of my brother or his bride-to-be.

We have plans to meet tomorrow for lunch, and things to do in preparation for the wedding on Saturday (make sure suit is pressed, etc.). Then we fly back to London on Sunday afternoon. The time difference should help offset the length of the flight.

Weds, 4 Jun

Taking care of wedding-related things with Peter and Kate has led me to consider whether I'd ever get married again. There was a point there when I thought, 'No, never again'; that it wasn't worth it. I know there were some trust issues involved—I might not have been in love with my ex-wife but I at least expected her to abide by the vows we had taken.

Now… well, I think I would. I will. If I can manage to get B back

What it might be like to be married to B—fun, warm, exciting. I don't delude myself though—it would be a bit maddening. It'd be constant struggle to hide the cigarettes, and I'd have to keep after her not to leave her pants all over the floor. It'd be worth it, though, to wake up to that lovely face every morning.

Sat, 7 Jun

Back in hotel room after ceremony and celebration. Both were lovely, sedate, yet not too serious. It has been a very long time since I felt my loneliness quite so acutely, though.

Tues, 10 Jun

Uneventful flight home, for which I am grateful. Worked in the afternoon only, as my system is in a bit of whiplash, changing time zones so radically within the space of a week. Twice.

Looking back, the last week's meagre entries seem to suggest I did not have a good time. I did. It's always great to have my family together, and it happens so rarely since Peter moved to Hong Kong. I just I miss It's difficult to be a part of happy family occasions—my own as well as my new sister-in-law's—when it only underscores that I'm rather unhappy about my loneliness. Ironically, it's when I'm by myself that I can make myself forget there's something missing from my life.


	12. Chapter 12: 11 Jun - 14 Jul

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 12: 11 Jun – 14 Jul**

Weds, 11 Jun

Ran into Giles on my way in today. "Mark," he said with a half-hearted smile.

It had been a while since I'd seen him, and his appearance surprised me a little. He looked a little drawn, like he'd lost a little weight, and very tired, dark smudges under his eyes. "Giles," I said. "Look like you've been rather busy lately."

He nodded. "Good to see you," he said. "Heard you were in Hong Kong?"

"Yes," I said. "My brother got married. He lives there."

"Married," said Giles. "I wish them all the best. Well, cheers."

We parted to head to our respective offices, agreeing to lunch together, which we did. He asked me straightaway if I still kept in touch with B. "She had such great advice that time on the phone."

"I…. Not really, no," I said.

"Understood," he said.

Hoping to get off of the subject of B, I asked him what project he was keeping himself busy with, how the last case had gone, but every explanation kept circling around and back to his wife (ex-wife?) Veronica. "I miss her, but I have to move on," he said resolutely, and more than once, even though he clearly had not moved on. I knew how he felt.

Fri, 13 Jun

Rebecca mentioned having another house party out in Gloucestershire next month. I didn't commit one way or another. My good memories of that weekend with B there are utterly overshadowed by the bad. Nearly four months ago. Seems infinitely longer than that.

Tues, 17 Jun

It occurs to me that I probably ought to buy a present for Constance. I think this may be a first, purchasing a gift for a child turning three. I haven't the faintest idea what she might like.

Weds, 18 Jun

On my way home tonight I popped into a toy shop and after chatting with the sales clerk I decided on something safe, something that any child of three was sure to like: a cuddly little stuffed bunny. Well, I say 'any child of three'—but I'd bet B would like it too. She always liked to cuddle things whilst asleep. (If it didn't remind her of Neil's pet, that is.)

Fri, 20 Jun

Tonight as we ate supper together at the French restaurant again, Rebecca asked me what I had planned for tomorrow.

"As a matter of fact," I said, cutting into my beef, "I've been invited to a birthday party for little Constance. You know, Magda's daughter."

"Oh!" she said, almost as if surprised. "I'd forgotten all about that! I just love children. I've always had a natural gift with them—they seem to just flock to me and adore me!" She smiled. "You know, we can just ride there together."

"I won't be able to do that, unfortunately," I said, then explained that I had business on the opposite side of the city, with Nigel. "I don't know how long it will take me, plus it doesn't make sense to zigzag across town."

For a moment she looked something akin to disappointed before recovering her features. "That's fine," she said. "Just fine. I'll just see you there. It'll be fun! Oh, and keep the twelfth and thirteenth of July free. The house party is on!"

Sat, 21 Jun

I don't know what to make of today.

When I arrived after my errand at Nigel's, I was greeted almost immediately by Rebecca. If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn she was waiting by the front door especially for me. "Hi!" she said. "Oh, that's so sweet, the little bunny. Constance will love it!"

I hate to admit this, but… as much as I appreciate Rebecca's friendship—and, let's face it, if nothing else it serves to keep me tied with B on some level—within five minutes of being in her company I feel mentally exhausted. Today was no different. Her exuberance and need to dominate all conversation both wear me down.

I slipped out of my jacket, then placed it over the back of a chair in the foyer before following her through the house and into the back garden, where the party was. There I saw a petting zoo of sorts, and something about the set up made me think that it was going to lead to disaster. I glanced around, but did not spot B. That didn't surprise me. She's always late.

I gave the present to Magda, who thanked me and called Constance over. She seemed to really like the bunny and wanted to carry it around with her, but Magda put the kibosh on that idea by reminding her that it might fall into the pig muck. "We don't want that, do we?" Magda asked. Constance shook her head.

Rebecca dropped down into a crouch and smiled, talking to the little girl in a strange high-pitched voice. It was nearly an hour since the official start of the party, not even ten minutes since I'd arrived, and I already wanted to go home. Rebecca's voice was probably making the animals edgy.

Idly I scanned the garden again and to my delight noticed B now standing by the French windows. She was looking directly at me. She was gorgeous in a blue sundress, her hair down and looking more like its usual self (it had been hard to tell that day with the children whether she'd kept the new haircut style). Not wanting to appear as if I were gawking, I nodded towards her and looked back towards Constance.

…to find that Rebecca had pulled out a hand fan that was painted in a very colourful Japanese style, and was waving it into Constance's face, repeating the girl's name. The girl looked like she thought Rebecca had lost her mind. I wondered myself. I thus far had seen no rapport with this particular child.

Magda crouched too, bunny still tucked under one arm, then pointed towards B. with the other. "Look who's come!"

I saw Constance smile then begin to run (as best as her small legs could do) off towards B. When she reached her destination, B bent down, and I watched as Constance put her arms around her neck for a hug. I think my heart melted, once again, in that moment. Now _that_ was rapport.

Trying to recover herself—crouched and waving a fan—Rebecca stood, flattened the fan then did the same to the front of her suit skirt (I could see her in my peripheral vision). I could not hear the conversation that B and Constance were having, but as Constance took B's hand and brought her into the house, Rebecca piped up with, "Oh, isn't that sweet?"

Rebecca went on about what a lovely day it was, how clever it was to have animals for the children. I couldn't take listening to it anymore, and decided to make my excuses saying I needed to use the loo, even though it was only an excuse. I headed into the house (from which B and Constance had not yet emerged).

I came in to find the two of them sitting on the stairs, earnest in conversation. It was a sweet scene to see, with B holding Constance's hand and saying, "—and some don't, but everyone's different… and that's okay." If there was such a thing as a paternal instinct, mine flared.

The two of them looked up to me simultaneously. I found myself at a loss, didn't want to seem as if I had any other purpose but the one I'd given out of doors. "Just… er. The loo is upstairs, I assume?" I asked. Neither responded. To Constance I said, "Hello, Constance. How's Pingu?" I noticed she was now wearing a sparkly pink tutu. Gift from B, I'd guess.

"He isn't real," she said with a scowl.

"Right, right," I said, feeling a bit stung. "Sorry. Stupid of me to be so—" I turned my gaze to B. "—gullible. Happy birthday, anyway." I then stepped up between them, my thoughts in a swirl as I went upstairs.

I decided that since I was already upstairs, I might as well make use of the excuse I'd made. When I was coming down I saw through the window that B (unmistakable dress) with her friend Sharon, speaking to a rather portly man who looked vaguely familiar. I continued downwards and the moment I came through the French doors I was summoned to where Rebecca was with little Constance, who looked like she'd much rather be over where the sheep and pot-bellied pig were.

"Magda's asked me to watch her for a moment," she said to me, then turned to Constance. "Now Constance, we're going to play a little game!" said Rebecca chirpily. "Isn't that fun?"

Constance said nothing.

"Right! Here's the game. Who do you think is older, me or Cosmo?" She pointed to the portly man I'd seen speaking to B and Sharon… who were now walking very quickly toward our group.

"Cosmo?" Constance said, like it was a question.

"Perfect! And who do you think is older, me or Mark?" She indicated me. B and Sharon were now with us.

"Mark," said Constance through her pout.

"Who do you think is older," she went on in her light, playful tone, "me or Mummy?"

"Mummy."

Rebecca laughed. "Who do you think is older, me or Bridget?" she asked, winking at me for some odd reason.

I watched Constance look up to B, and thought I saw B nod slightly. Constance then turned to Rebecca. "You."

I laughed. I couldn't help myself.

"Shall we play fairies?" Rebecca said suddenly, reaching for Constance's hand and Constance, evading it. "Do you live in a fairy castle? Is Harry a fairy too? Where are your fairy-wairy friends?"

"Bridget," Constance said with all the seriousness of a circuit judge, "I think you'd better tell this lady I'm not really a fairy."

At that point Magda took Constance's hand and took her away; Sharon pulled B away; and I was left with Rebecca. "Let's find something to drink," she said brightly.

It was a little while later that Jude arrived alone. I only mention it because it appeared to be a centre of drama. Magda met her, said in a very cheery tone, "The girls are here! Look! Over there!" and pointed directly towards B and Sharon. They in turn seemed to pretend they hadn't seen Jude; Sharon more than B, to be honest. Rebecca went dashing away towards Jude and Magda, air-kissing Jude's cheeks as if the two of them had been friends since nursery school.

I drew closer; I was curious to hear what was going on. I realised Rebecca was speaking with nary a breath about the Gloucestershire weekend in July. "—Jude and Richard, and Mark'll be there of course—" This startled me, as I had not agreed to any such thing. "—Giles and Nigel from Mark's office—"

"And Bridget and Sharon?" asked Jude, looking towards them.

"What?"

"You've invited Bridget and Sharon?" Jude asked.

"Oh. Well, of course, I'm not sure we've got enough bedrooms but I suppose we could use the cottage," she said, more to herself than anyone. "Yes, I have!" She then looked around to find B and Sharon. "Oh, there you two are! You're coming on the twelfth, aren't you?"

"Where?" asked Sharon gruffly.

"To Gloucestershire."

Sharon said in a firm, loud voice, "We didn't know anything about it."

"Well, you do now! Second weekend in July. It's just outside Woodstock." She turned to B. "You've been before, haven't you, Bridget?"

B turned scarlet. Understandable. "Yes."

Rebecca went on unruffled. "So, that's great! And you're coming, Magda, so…"

"Um…" Bridget said unsurely.

"We'd love to come," said Sharon decisively.

Rebecca walked—or rather, stalked off—and this left me quite confused. Why would she say she'd invited Sharon and B when she hadn't? Maybe she only thought she had. All I knew was that if B was going to go, I would certainly go too.

I wandered off away from the two of them, vaguely in the direction that Rebecca had taken, but I stopped and looked back towards B, only to see that Giles was chatting her up. They seemed to talk for quite a long time, until Magda fetched up, taking Giles away and leaving Constance with B.

I watched as B consoled Constance over something to do with her bright pink tutu (Constance's, not B's, obviously), and shortly after Magda came back to take Constance into the house.

I stepped forward, heart in my throat. As I had hoped in accepting the invitation, it finally seemed to be my chance to speak with her, one to one, about how I really felt. Regardless of how she felt about me, I would have closure one way or another. (Obviously I had hopes for a positive outcome.)

I had barely gotten a step in that direction when I noticed two of the little urchin boys had begun smacking her bottom (she had not yet stood from conversing with Constance). At this same time there was a commotion near where the animals were, but B was of more immediate concern to me. When she tried to get up, the larger of the two boys leapt up and jumped up on to her back, cackling like a mad hyena, his arms looped around her neck.

Without hesitation I strode up and plucked the boy from her. She stayed hunched over for a moment, as if too traumatised to stand upright. I pulled the second boy up and, with one of these terror children under each of my arm, I walked back towards the house to find whose offspring they were.

"What on earth—What are you doing?!" shrieked a woman whose name I cannot now recollect. She was walking purposefully, and shouting at _me_.

"Is this your son?" I asked. She nodded. "I found him hanging like a monkey off of Bridget over there." I glanced in B's direction to see she was looking at me before she quickly looked away. I fixed my gaze on the boy's mother and gave her my steeliest look, spoke in the sternest tone I could manage. "I think this child—both of these children—could use a little discipline. I'll leave that to you." She could only nod mutely again.

There was a cacophony of confusion as a group of adults did their best to recapture the escaped pig (the earlier commotion). I knew at that moment that today was not the right day—and this, not the right place—to bare my soul to B. As much as I wanted to do it and have it over with, this plaster was not meant to be pulled off quickly. As I watched the chase I realised I wanted to leave. Very much. I went into the house for my jacket then thought I would at least say goodbye to the hostess and to B.

As I was speaking to Magda, Rebecca was back at my side. "It's been fun," Rebecca said cheerily. "Thank you so much for having us over! Let me just say goodbye to Constance. Constance!"

I pardoned myself and headed directly to Bridget. God, she looked beautiful in that dress; I stared a little longer than I rightly should have. "I'm, er, off now, Bridget. Don't leave with any pieces of meat in your handbag, will you?" (Tried to be funny. Fell a little flat. I was distracted.)

"No," she said. We stood there, in silence, our gazes locked. I had a moment where I thought 'sod it, say something' before she spoke again. "Oh, thank you, thank you for…" She trailed off, nodding with her head towards the scene of the hellion-boy incident.

"Not at all," I said, quite losing all strength in my voice. "Any time you want me to get a boy off of your back—"

"Oh, are you off, old boy?" I turned to see Giles standing there, two drinks in hand, giving one to B. "I was just about to pump Bridget for some more of her seasoned advice."

I looked quickly between them, startled. Giles had said he'd needed to move on—but could he have meant with B? "I'm sure you'll be in very good hands," I said curtly. "See you in the office on Monday."

Giles said, clapping me in a friendly way on the back, "Back in the old torture chambers, eh? On it goes, on it goes. Off you go, then."

And off I went. I walked out to my car, Rebecca walking alongside me to her own, talking up a storm, but I hadn't heard a word. I was probably a bit more brusque than she deserved, but my thoughts were focused both on what had happened… and had not happened.

(How on earth did Giles even end up at the birthday party? Through Rebecca?)

Mon, 23 Jun

I did see Giles at 'the old torture chambers' today. Rather than ask directly about his on-going conversations with B, I decided to ask about their mutual interest, self-help books.

"It's really very interesting," he said with a renewed vigour; so different than when we'd bumped into one another almost a fortnight ago. I could absolutely believe the change was inspired by a new purpose in life, such as an interest in B. She had certainly woken me from the slumber of my life. "I've just been reading through _Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway_ and you know, it's really inspiring. And _Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus_—that book changed my whole outlook, even if it never much changed Veronica's. And _You Can Heal Your Life_ is just phenomenal."

I remembered how much like a laboratory experiment I'd felt when I hadn't performed up to B's books' conflicting expectations. 'It's all bollocks,' I thought, but then thought maybe reading those books would at least give me an insight into the way she saw the world and relationships, so I asked Giles did he mind jotting them down and if he had to recommend one, which one would he recommend?

"Oh, goodness," he said, giving the matter great thought. "Perhaps _Men are From Mars_. Good intro to the genre and very informative. I can loan it to you, if you like."

"That would be nice, thanks." I wanted to keep an open mind, but certainly didn't want to spend the money on it if it turned out to be rubbish. I then tucked the slip of paper into my jacket pocket and went down to my office.

Fri, 27 Jun

Rebecca is hinting about a planned group outing to Italy in August. Tuscany, to be specific. I like the idea, especially if B is part of the group.

Giles brought the book in for me, but I forgot to bring it home. Hope no one spots it on my desk.

Weds, 2 Jul

Been giving some thought to what I might say to B if we get the chance to speak privately in Gloucestershire. I have resigned myself to the fact that there's no chance I'll see her otherwise—it's the only reason, really, that I keep going to these things.

Originally I thought it might work best if I was straightforward with my feelings—a terrifying thought in my best moments, but nothing worth having comes without struggle, right?—but after some consideration I am not sure this is the best approach. I mean, all would be wonderful well if she felt the same, but if she does not have feelings for me anymore, then this puts her in an awkward position every time we meet, and may make her want to avoid me.

It might instead be best to try to ascertain how she feels before approaching, though short of mind-reading I'm not sure how I can do that. I suppose asking Rebecca if she's seeing someone else could be the way to go—I mean, I do get this impression that they still talk and see one another. I'm not sure Sharon would give me the time of day, and as regards Jude, I'm hardly going to bring up the subject at Brightlings when I'm there. Magda? I don't get the impression that she is in touch, socially, with her single friends. Everything revolves around her three children (the eldest of whom is three), and understandably so.

Tues, 8 Jul

Have told Rebecca to pencil me in for her plans to Tuscany. She sounded very excited.

Sun, 13 Jul

Too much has happened this weekend. I am still processing it all. I feel such a fool for

Mon, 14 Jul

On Saturday, I arrived to the house in Gloucestershire and arrived just after four in the afternoon (as I understood was the general arrival time). I was apparently the first to arrive, and Rebecca greeted me with enthusiasm per usual. I wanted to drop my bag off to my room, but she demurred. "I'd prefer you help me get the dining room ready—if you don't mind, that is. Come on, I'll pour you a wine."

As we entered, I couldn't help noticing the elaborate carved crest above the fireplace—a new addition, I thought, since the last time I'd been there. By that time we'd set up the table and had finished the better part of a bottle, it was well past five. It was then the bell rang again. Rebecca answered the door, then called to me: "I'll just go show Magda and Jeremy their room, if you don't mind waiting down here in case others arrive."

As it turned out, most of the others arrived in a great clump, so there was a great fuss and bother at the main door while Rebecca was off showing them their room. Everyone's things were gathered up in small groups, and they were all shown upstairs. "Mark, if you don't mind choosing another bottle or two for dinner, I'll take your bag up." I obliged. I thought nothing of it.

We fetched up in the sitting room. More time passed; more drinks were imbibed. Before I knew it, it was approaching the dinner hour (when she had actually cooked was a mystery to me, as I don't remember seeing her in a kitchen once—but could it have been catered in, all the way out there?). It wasn't until ten minutes until she planned to serve that the front door bell rang again. Rebecca, without a word but with an expression best described as seething, rose to get the door.

"Oh, we'd almost given you up for lost!"

I looked up, even though I knew I could not see the foyer from there. I knew in my heart it was B. Who else was missing? More to the point, who else could possibly have been this late?

Rebecca swept back in to the sitting room alone and announced that dinner was served, so we all filtered to our places in the dining room. I felt distinctly uncomfortable at the head of the table, and had voiced my opinion whilst we'd set the table—after all, it was hardly my place—but Rebecca would brook no argument: "I insist! It just seems right, you being there!"

We had already begun to eat when Sharon and B entered the room, looking a bit flustered like they didn't know where to sit. Rebecca seemed completely unaware they had come in, but Giles had noticed, and he called the two of them to where Rebecca had placed them, between Giles and Magda's husband Jeremy. (Rebecca had insisted that B be put far from me so as not to cause awkwardness. I could hardly argue against it.)

I mostly tried to tune out the conversation around me. Rebecca's voice dominated the conversation anyway, and was starting to cause a dull pain in my temples. She was going on about Tuscany, about which I was sick of hearing already. My attention, however, was thoroughly snagged when I overheard Jeremy say the name "Barky Thompson" and made reference to a girl called Heather who "seemed to be fancying a bit of a crack" at me—I vaguely remembered her. Totally uninterested. (I can't say I ever recalled seeing Jeremy at the drinks parties, but then again, they were usually very well-attended, and I had no reason to remember him.)

I thought I saw B's features turn sad. I wanted nothing more than to speak with her alone, in private. After dinner, I told myself.

"What's _that_, Rebecca?" someone asked; when I looked up I noticed all gazes focused on the carved crest I'd noted earlier. I'd thought it was a bit garish (and I'm pretty sure her family's not aristocracy), and judging from the bemused faces around the table, I was not the only one. "'_Per Determinam ad Victoriam'_?" Laughter. "'Through ruthlessness to victory.' That's our Rebecca for you." I saw B and Sharon exchange amused glances. I tried very hard not to laugh, and brought my hand up to cover my smile.

"Actually, it's 'Through determination to success,'" Rebecca said in a very cool, measured tone. She then quite determinedly changed the subject. (To what, I can't recall, and it's not important anyway. It's only important that she did.)

After dinner we all went back to the sitting room for dancing; Rebecca asked me if I wanted to dance (some slow song), and in that moment I didn't see the harm in agreeing. It wasn't but a few minutes when the song changed to something I could only think must have belonged to St John: loud, raucous and metallic. Then my wrist was being clasped by someone I hoped was B, but it was Sharon, and I started to laugh at her efforts to get me to dance to the musical chaos.

I noticed that Giles had begun dancing with B, and before too long she was gone from the room—I hadn't even noticed when she slipped out and I wasn't sure where she was in the cottages. Soon after that, the others began filing out too. I couldn't wait to get to my room, relax then go to sleep. It had been a trying day, and I hadn't even gotten to speak to B.

I had the shock of a lifetime, however, when Rebecca showed me upstairs at last. She opened the door to what I thought was my room, and I realised—

"Isn't this _your_ room?"

"Yes," she said, after she'd closed the door behind us. She then turned her head, her long hair sliding smoothly across her shoulders. She stepped near to me with a smile that seemed… well, in retrospect, practised.

I stood there, frozen in place, as she slipped my jacket off of my shoulders, laying it over the arm of the chair before coming back to me. Hadn't occurred to me until that moment how tall she was in comparison to B.

She brought her hand up to my face and… I'm not proud of what happened next. Perhaps I had been too long without physical contact (though what we shared could hardly be called cosy, intimate, or a bonding experience), because my body responded while my mind was focused on two things:

* What B had said—hell, what a stranger to the situation had said (Adam)!—about Rebecca trying to pinch me for herself, it had all been true… and I had unwittingly encouraged her. _Was_ encouraging her. Which was my own fault, and not something to be proud of.

* Trying to figure out some way I could possibly get out of the room, let her know I only had feelings of platonic friendship for her and nothing more, without looking even more foolish than I already felt. (Obviously, I failed at this, quite probably because I… ran out of time.)

It was wholly unsatisfactory; even with thoughts of B in mind, Rebecca was… not B.

Immediately after, I felt guilt wash over me, as if I had cheated on B. It was ridiculous. For all I knew B was seeing someone else. I turned aside and feigned sleep. I could hear before too long that she had fallen to sleep; the snoring was a giveaway. I slept very poorly indeed.

Sunday morning was very strange. Woke to find Rebecca had already left the room; I shaved, showered, dressed and went downstairs. She greeted me with her usual air-kisses as the others joined in. I noticed B came in just as most of us were finishing—late as always, Sharon in tow—and they had to settle for fruit, tepid coffee and cold cereal. B looked as if she'd slept poorly, too.

Rebecca asked if I wanted to see the water garden again, and I agreed, since it was really quite lovely out there. I thought maybe we'd discuss what had happened the night before but she kept topics to those more suitable for small talk. It was almost like she was acting last night hadn't happened at all. I felt something akin to relief, to be honest. I would have preferred to pretend it hadn't, though I did feel like I needed to apologise. She had to know I didn't have feelings for her.

But alas, the chit-chat continued. We'd gotten onto the topic of driving, somehow. I mentioned that even though my father was appallingly bad in his driving, my mother couldn't be talked out of riding with him. "They won't be parted," I concluded, then in a moment of sentimentality, I added, "It's rather endearing."

"Oh, I _love_ that!" she said with a smile, clasping her hands together as we sat on a bench overlooking a little pond. "If I were married to someone I _really_ loved, I would want to be with them constantly."

I thought about B and her friends (and her seeming overreliance on them), and replied, perhaps too quickly, "Would you?" She nodded eagerly. "I think, as you get older, then…" I paused to gather my thoughts, staring out across the garden, then up into the pale blue summer sky, and out came hypotheses about which I had only been thinking and had never really voiced to another soul. "…the danger is if you've been single for a time, you get so locked into a network of friends—this is particularly true of women—that it hardly leaves room for a man in their lives, emotionally as much as anything because their friends and their views are their first point of reference."

"Oh, I quite agree," she said, equally eagerly. "For me, of course I love my friends, but they're not top of my list of priorities."

I looked back to her, admiring this independence of hers; it reminded me of a certain loaned book from Giles that I'd yet to crack open, which made me think of the self-help book 'religion' talk, the war command gibberish. As I gave vent to my feelings I grew more frustrated. "This self-help book nonsense—all these mythical rules of conduct you're presumed to be following. And you just know every move you make is being dissected by a committee of girlfriends according to some breathtakingly arbitrary code made up of _Buddhism Today_, _Venus and Buddha Have a Shag_ and the _Koran_. You end up feeling like some laboratory mouse with an ear on its back!"

"Oh, I quite agree," said Rebecca again. Her voice went quite uncharacteristically soft as she went on. "I have no time for all that stuff. If I decide I love someone, then nothing will stand in my way. _Nothing_. Not friends, not theories. I just follow my instincts, follow my heart."

I appreciated that at least she was being honest with me; 'through determination to success' seemed a fitting motto, indeed. It was a refreshing change of pace from the hesitation, the second-guessing, the relationship by committee. "I respect you for that." I said thoughtfully, and in that moment I meant it. "A woman must know what she believes in; otherwise, how can you believe in her yourself?"

"And trust her man above all else," she added in that same soft voice.

I turned back to stare out across the garden again, the placid little pond shimmering in the light; I watched a bird flit by and went over in my head the 'nothing will stand in my way' bit she'd just come out with; nothing, not friends, not theories. If only B. had trusted more in me—in _us_—without reservation, without the dependence on books or her friends' opinions as the biggest influence on her choices, I mightn't have been apart from her now.

In many ways, it would have been be easier to have fallen for Rebecca and not B, because if nothing else Rebecca was direct and knew precisely what she wanted. Easier, yes, but it would have been impossible. I was still as much in love with B as ever, even if she had consigned me to the 'cheating fuckwit' bin. I was sure she had.

"Of course I said all this to Jude," Rebecca went on, interrupting my thoughts. "She was so concerned about everything Bridget and Sharon had told her about not marrying Richard—he's _such_ a great guy—and I just said, 'Jude, follow your heart.'"

"Yes," I said, dragging out the word a bit; how this fitted into anything was beyond me, and why bring up B? "Well, I'm not sure—"

"Giles seems to be very keen on Bridget!" Rebecca interrupted.

This second mention of B stopped me in my mental track, and my voice was not quite itself when I spoke again. "Oh really. And is… is this reciprocated?"

"Oh, _you_ know Bridget." She waved her hand in the air in a dismissive manner. "I mean Jude says she's got all these guys after her, but she's so screwed up she won't… well, as you say, she can't get it together with any of them."

As she spoke I felt my heart sink with the recollection of Una's words from long ago, but then I realised—can't get it together? "Really? So have there been—"

"Oh, I think… you _know_…" I didn't. "…but she's so bogged down in her rules of dating or whatever it is that no one's good enough."

'Nor was I,' I thought with a stab of pain in my heart. I had to ask again, "Really? So she isn't—"

"Oh look! There's a duckling!" she interrupted again, getting to her feet. "Oh, look, a whole _brood_ of ducklings! And there's the mother and father. Oh, what a perfect, _perfect_ moment! Oh, let's go look!"

I rose then followed mutely, trying to work out what had just happened there on the bench. She was the one who had brought up B (regarding Giles), then diverted from the subject when I had shown the least bit interest in knowing whether B was in fact seeing someone.

With the benefit of hindsight I know now she was gauging whether or not I still had feelings for B.


	13. Chapter 13: 15 Jul - 2 Aug

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 13: 15 Jul – 2 Aug**

Tues, 15 Jul

To pick back up what happened on Sunday in Gloucestershire—because it bears documenting—the day became quite oppressively hot, so we all as a group migrated to a shady spot by the lake. I say 'lake', but it had obviously seen better days; the waterline was quite low compared to where it usually was. Nigel and… oh, hell, I've forgotten who it was… were, bizarrely enough, tossing about a football. Nigel—broad expanse of pasty white office skin on full display—missed, slipped and went straight into the lake.

I had been anticipating one or the other would go in and when it did happen, I found myself uttering a "Yes!" as if NU had just scored a goal to win the match. It felt good to laugh, even it was at his expense, especially after the tumult of last night and that morning. "Breath-taking incompetence."

Distractedly, I heard B sigh. She was across from where I sat; though most of the group was between us, I had a straight line of vision to her. She spoke, I think to Sharon: "You expect to see lions lying down with lambs."

"Lions, Bridget?" I asked, lifting a brow; I'm no biblical scholar by any stretch, but even I knew it was 'wolf,' not 'lion.'

I seem to have startled her; I saw her skin tint. "I mean like in psalm whatsit."

"Right," said I, feeling a warmness from her I hadn't felt in some time. "Do you think you might be thinking of the Lions of Longleat?" I teased gently, obviously referring to the safari park.

"I'm going to jump off the bridge!"

This startling declaration came from Rebecca, who had leapt up and was standing there, broadcasting utter confidence in her ridiculously small and unflattering swimming suit (using the term loosely, as I don't expect one could actually successfully swim in it and have it remain in place).

"Why?" I asked.

Sharon muttered (I thought quite harshly, at the time), "Because attention was diverted from her for five minutes."

Rebecca went on: "We used to do it when we were little! It's heaven!"

She was not little anymore, and the water was very low indeed. I said so. She, however, would not be persuaded, not even by Jude.

"I have made up my mind. I am resolute!"

She slipped into her mules then went to the bridge. It seemed she was really going to do this. I got to my feet to lend weight to my protest. This could be dangerous, very dangerous, and I had no idea how fast an ambulance could get all the way out here if the worst happened. "Rebecca! I _really_ don't think—"

"It's all right!" she said, swinging her hair. "I trust my own judgment!"

Dramatically she struck a diving posture, then jumped in. She hit the water, went under, should have come up… and didn't. I went towards the lake just as she broke the surface with a piercing scream as loud as any that the boys at Constance's birthday party could have done.

There was a lot of noise and activity as a few of us went over to pull her out, then Nigel and I brought her over to sit down on a chaise-longue-style deck chair. She was limping a bit but otherwise was fine. No cuts (not much fabric to hide them—frankly I was surprised the swimming suit had remained intact), no blood. I could think only of what Sharon had said minutes before, about wanting to remain in the centre of attention, doing whatever was necessary to not only reclaim it—but more to the point, this was a very stark reminder that she did what she wanted and no one could stop her. Always. And if a potentially fatal injury was not a deterrent….

"Shall I dial 999?" B asked, a joking edge to her voice I was very familiar with, as she held up her mobile.

"Yes…" Rebecca said weakly as her audience gathered. "_Yes_."

Rebecca appeared to be perfectly serious.

"How about we try your doctor, instead?" pressed B, obviously thinking, as I did, that 999 for a twisted ankle was a bit much.

There was a fleeting look before Rebecca relented and rattled off the number, which B punched into her mobile. After a bit of fuss dialling another number (out-of-surgery, I suspected, given it was Sunday), she handed the portable to Rebecca. All of this was done with quiet dignity and patience.

Meanwhile I had sat down on a chair opposite from where Rebecca reposed and had a closer look at her pained ankle, while Rebecca went on in a pitiable, overwrought voice to the doctor. Not once did Rebecca acknowledge the first real practical assistance anyone had offered (aside from our helping her from the lake) which was done by the one person in that crowd whom Rebecca probably had hurt the most.

"Doctor says a slight jar," she said petulantly as she rang off the phone and thrust it back towards B, as if B were some nameless housemaid. "I'm insisting on seeing him first thing. He can't _possibly_ know over the phone."

"Where's Giles?" asked Nigel. Louise agreed: she hadn't seen him all morning.

"I'll go and see." This from B, who ducked away.

I realised I still had Rebecca's foot on my knee, and gingerly I replaced it on the chaise. I rose from my chair. "I'm going to see, too."

"Mark," she said. "Don't worry about Giles. And anyway, I'm sure Bridget would prefer—well, you know."

What it was she thought B would prefer, I could only guess… I thought back to her comment that morning about Giles being keen on B. This was her way of answering whether the feeling was mutual, it seemed. I wish I could say I didn't believe her, what with the self-help books he enthused about so very much, but the fact was I had a dreadful feeling something was really wrong. "I'm going," I said, striding off towards the house.

I couldn't recall exactly which room was Giles' so I headed up the staircase. I could hear noises coming from the other end of the corridor from where Rebecca's room was, had a moment of horror when I realised that the door on that room was ajar, and my folded underpants—my NU boxers, the one from B, the ones I'd worn as a (don't laugh) good luck charm in my effort to talk with her the night before—sat on the duvet. If B had come that way, she surely had seen them there. My heart sunk.

Not important right now, I thought. I carried on down the corridor and knocked on the door from which I could hear voices. I then pushed it open.

There, lying on the bed, was Giles, who was sobbing. He looked absolutely wrecked, his glasses on the bedside table along with a small pill bottle and half-empty glass of water. His shirt was dirtied with what I dared not to ask. B sat on the bed with his hand in hers, and she turned to look up at me. "Will you ring the doctor again?" she asked with tenderness in her voice, handing me her phone.

"What's he taken?"

"Temazepam. About half a dozen. He's been sick."

That much I'd guessed. I went back into the corridor; from my vantage point near the top of the grand staircase, I saw a group come in from outside, along with Rebecca, who was being helped along by Nigel, I think.

"We need a doctor again," I said, bringing B's mobile up to my ear. "Giles has taken an overdose."

"Oh for God's sake!" Rebecca shrieked, stunning me.

"Shh, shh," I said as I heard B's voice drifting from out of the room, speaking words of encouragement to the forlorn Giles.

The doctor came on and after a very brief conversation, I went back into the room, trying to offer a smile but just not feeling very smiley, though I felt obligated to apologise for Rebecca's outburst. "Sorry about that," I said. "You're in good hands here." I then told him the doctor would be there very soon and that there was nothing to worry about. To B I said, "Are you okay?"

She nodded.

"You're being great," I said. "A rather more attractive version of George Clooney." That garnered a hint of a smile. "Will you stay with him until the doctor comes?"

She agreed. I left. Again my thoughts were in a whirl. I decided to pack up my overnight bag as I considered what I had seen and heard that day.

The unselfishness of B's actions—helping Giles, a man she had never (to my knowledge) seen outside of my company, getting him to be sick, comforting him when he needed it, when the rest of us hadn't a clue he'd even been inclined to taking pills—contrasted with Rebecca's spontaneous expression of utter selfishness was causing the scales to fall from my eyes.

Very rapidly.

I had thought Rebecca's statement that morning—about her priorities, about following her heart, not letting friends stop her from getting what she wanted—had been noble in a way; that it had meant that she was reliant on herself and not dependent on the opinions of other people or bogus 'facts' from an expert. Now I was beginning to realise it was _far_ less philosophical than that. When she'd said that she loved her friends but "they're not top of my list of priorities"—she'd meant exactly that. Her own needs and wants were top of her list of priorities, were her _only_ priorities, and she didn't care who was hurt in the process. That was obvious enough in what she'd done to B; I could now well believe St John's story, the one I'd blithely labelled as a catalogue of Chinese whispers.

Through ruthlessness to victory, indeed.

I then went down to the enormous entryway in anticipation of the doctor's arrival, only to hear a knock at the door. I offered to show him to the rooms, but he merely smiled in resignation and said, "Oh, I know where they are. I've been here before."

This didn't surprise me.

After he'd gone, I stood there, not wanting to find the others because I was still sorting out how I felt and I didn't want to speak to Rebecca with anyone else around because, ironically enough, I didn't want to embarrass her. However, I hadn't yet been there a few minutes when Rebecca, complete with walking stick, came back from wherever she'd gone and sat on one of the foyer's settees. She raised her foot up, wincing in an almost exaggerated fashion as she did. "Everyone's gone to pack up and leave," she said.

"Well, it is Sunday afternoon—"

"Cannot _believe_ this," interrupted Rebecca petulantly, and I thought she might go on except for the door opening again; she straightened up as if to be on best behaviour for the likes of Nigel or Louise, but when she saw it was Sharon, she relaxed again. "Oh, it's just you," said Rebecca.

Sharon bore two bags, one of which I recognised to be B's.

"Bridget's up with Giles," I said. She did not acknowledge that I spoke; instead, Sharon pulled out a cigarette and lit it with an expression of defiance on her face, particularly when her gaze flitted towards me.

Rebecca exhaled loudly, then sniffed. "It's just so inconsiderate. It's ruined the whole weekend!" she said passionately, directed at me. "People should be strong and resolute, it's so… self-indulgent and self-obsessed. Don't just say nothing; don't you think I'm right?"

I couldn't believe my ears. To exclaim "Oh for God's sake!" in the shock of the moment was one thing; to continue to rail on about how her weekend had been inconvenienced (never mind a man had _just tried to kill himself_) was on another plane altogether. But, as I noted before, I didn't want to make a scene, and others were returning to the hall to say goodbye. "I think we should… talk about it later."

It was then I spotted that B had come down from upstairs, and she went straight for Sharon. "Hope you're better soon," she said, shooting Rebecca a glance. "Goodbye."

They left.

"The doctor didn't want to come out for me, but he came for Giles. Unbelievable!" she said, swinging her legs over as she sat upright. She reached for her walking stick. "I'm going to see what's taking so long."

I said nothing as I left the house. I caught Sharon and B up as they packed their things into the boot of a car. "Well done," I said sharply. B turned to face me, her expression puzzled. "Sorry. God, I sound like a sergeant major. The surroundings are getting to me. You were great, back there, with… with… well, with both of them."

From within the house, Rebecca called for me. "Mark! I've dropped my walking stick!"

It was then that Sharon veritably growled at me, and what she said both took me back, and would spark a revelation: "Fetch!"

After a moment of wit-gathering, I said stupidly, "Well, nice to see you, girls; drive safely." I then turned and went inside.

Rebecca stood there at the bottom of the staircase, staring at me imperiously, putting her weight on the foot that hadn't been injured, the walking stick still on the floor beside her. She was still clad only in the ridiculous bikini. "Where have you been? The doctor's already come down and gone."

Without saying a word, I went directly past her, up the stairs and to the room where my bag was. She called after me, my name again and again, but I knew she wouldn't follow me, not with the injured ankle. I peeked my head into where Giles was, saw he was sleeping. I hoped he'd be all right. I hated the thought of leaving him here with her, but I didn't want to stay any longer than necessary.

I turned and found, much to my shock, that Rebecca was just outside the door. She was glaring at me, particularly when she saw the packed bag I carried.

"Has everyone else gone?" I asked.

"Yes, and why are _you_ going? Just because I've hurt my ankle—"

She stopped abruptly when I looked pointedly at it, the ankle that was so injured it had obviously prevented her following me up the stairs without the help of the stick, and at a rapid pace.

The scales were now completely fallen. I remembered that first weekend, when B had tried to warn me. How many times Rebecca had, that weekend, played us against one another. How everything Rebecca had said about B that had seemed like compliments were always, upon consideration, veiled insults. How she treated me not like someone she cared about, but like a trophy. A pet.

_Fetch._

My whole perspective had shifted radically and on a geographic scale:

It wasn't that B hadn't trusted me or us; wasn't that B valued self-help books or her friends more than she valued me. Rather, B, unlike Rebecca, had no interest or desire to turn her back on them once she'd found someone. She _did_ value her friends. She _did_ put them on her list of priorities. And they, in turn, were only looking after her as friends do—after all, I had been far from blameless in allowing what had happened to happen. If I had only seen the efforts for what they'd been; if I had only taken B at her word, and not been so quick to trust Rebecca over my own girlfriend.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got… but my own complicity in this fiasco—however unwittingly—served to moderate my temper. Even still, my glare must have been terrifying; she was silent for far too long. I spoke again with cool fury.

"This weekend has really opened my eyes. You schemed and destroyed a perfectly happy relationship, trampled over someone who was supposed to have been your friend, in your ruthless pursuit of me. I was too blind to see it; too naïve in thinking you just wanted to be my friend, too."

As I said this, she put on the mask of wounded innocence. "But Mark, you don't understand! I _do_ want—"

"Want," I interrupted. "It's always about what you want. I _know_ what you want: what others have that you don't. You are not getting your way this time, and you have damaged any chance of friendship with me that you might have had."

The mask slipped; she was furious, and she lashed out: "You didn't seem to think so last night!"

"Last night was an enormous mistake, one I won't be making again. Ever." I so dearly wanted to tell her the truth about where my thoughts had been Saturday night just to see the hurt look on her face… but I thought tipping my hand and revealing I still loved B would have fuelled Rebecca's determination even further. She would not have given up her pursuit. "I want to be very clear. I don't have feelings for you. Not even as a friend." I picked up my bag again—I hadn't even realised I'd set it down. Rather, thrown it down.

"What about Tuscany?"

"What do _you_ think, Rebecca?" I said through clenched teeth.

Then came the whipped puppy expression again, one I knew was as natural as her highlights. "Mark, I'm sorry!" she said tearily, clasping her hands at her chest in a feeble effort to win sympathy from me.

"I'm sorry too," I said. "Sorry that I doubted St John's words to Bridget. Pass that on to him, won't you?"

Then I brushed past her and out the room.

I determined, once I'd left the house, to drive directly to B's; it's a long drive back to London, though, and by the time I'd gone all that way, I'd had time to give it some thought. I might have shaken free of Rebecca's shackles, but B was not likely to just take me back with open arms. I was tired and wanted time to think about how to get myself back into her good graces.

So that's what I've been doing for the past two days (between working, I mean). Giles is absent; Nigel told me they are still there in Gloucestershire as neither are able to make the drive back.

Oh, and I've been reading. As I got into bed that Sunday night, my gaze fell upon _Men are from Mars_. I'd intended on reading just the start but got… engrossed. Read most of it that night, finished it up last night. I'm not a convert by any means, but it makes some astute observations. It is clear where B got some of her insights. I hate admitting this, but I should have read it sooner. Instead of retreating to my cave, I might have stayed and listened to B's explanation about the Valentine's card…

Weds, 16 Jul

I have been thinking about the card.

I accept that St John acted on his own after Rebecca's lie, trying to kiss B without provocation or encouragement from B.

B had already previously explained that Gary was Magda's builder, the one who'd installed the shelves and who was supposed to have been putting in an infill extension. There was the huge hole in the flat wall (on which I sincerely hope progress has been made) that bore that out as the truth.

Therefore, I can only suppose that there is an innocent explanation for the card too. Who was S.? And why had the card been sent to my house? If S. _were_ a secret admirer or someone she had been seeing on the side… why on earth would she have given him my address? The more I think about it, the stranger it seems…and the more I am convinced there was nothing at all to the card.

Maybe that can be my ice-breaker when I ring her up. "Hi, Bridget. Remember how I said I would call when I'd calmed down?" (Kidding.)

Fri, 18 Jul

The best laid plans of mice and men…

I decided that I didn't want to talk to B over the telephone about a matter as important as this one. I mean, the whole 'let's talk reconciliation' matter. So I went over this evening direct from work, driving and parking around the corner in case it was late when I left. (With the paperwork I tend to carry, I never leave my attaché in the car; I brought it with me.)

As I approached I saw something I couldn't quite make sense of. Standing on the low wall around the building's dustbin was B, a short leather coat around her. She was looking quite fixedly into the bins.

"Hello," I said tentatively.

She turned to face me. Under the jacket I saw she wore nothing but a bra and knickers. I did not at the time think to question why. My eyes were too fixed on that which I had not seen in far too long.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for the dustbin to ring." She pulled the jacket closed.

"I see," I said, though I didn't. "Have you been waiting… long?"

"No," she replied. "A normal amount of time."

I don't know which was stranger: that she said she was waiting for the dustbin to ring, or that it actually started ringing.

"Ah. That'll be for me." She went to reach over, but I envisioned that not ending well: face down in the dustbin, pants on full display.

"Please, allow me." I set down my attaché, leapt up onto the wall, reached in and found the phone, answering it with, "Bridget Jones' phone."

Silence, then, "Is Bridget there?"

"Yes, of course, I'll put her on." I held it out, said the obvious: "It's for you."

I could hear an excited tone of voice from the phone as she held it up. I glanced over and noticed then that also in the dustbin were quite a lot of self-help books, many of the same titles B had had on her own misshapen bookshelves. I picked up a few, peered at them with confusion. Were they hers? If so, why on earth were they in the bin?

"Thank you so much."

"Not at all," I said, dropping the books back down, then looked back at her, at the leather jacket over her underclothes. Curious about the outfit, I began, "Er…"

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. Er. Just, um, well… nice to see you." I was stammering like an idiot. Her being half-naked was not conducive to my concentration for the serious conversation I wanted to have. "Well… nice to see you again." I offered a small smile, got my case, then turned and took a couple of steps away.

"Mark?"

I didn't want to turn back because I wasn't sure I could control my features, but there was no way I wasn't going to turn to look at her. Our gazes locked. She looked… like she was glad to see me, even eager to hear me speak; wide, expectant eyes, faint blush to the apples of her cheeks. This was it, I thought; even if the words weren't perfect, I think she'd know what I was trying to say.

"Hey! Bridge! Are you coming out for dinner without a skirt?"

It was a voice I knew well. Daniel Cleaver. I broke the gaze, looking away to see him approaching from behind B, but I don't think he saw me—he was too busy looking at her legs. I shot her a quick look, turned away and left.

It's one thing to continue to delude myself in thinking she hasn't moved on. It's another altogether that she's moved on with Daniel, a man who had treated her appallingly. Hell, he had treated us both that way.

Very low night.

Sat, 19 Jul

Went to Waterstone's today and picked up _Men are from Mars_ (will need to return Giles his copy) as well as _Mars and Venus on a Date_. After some discussion with the sales clerk—who looked about twelve to my jaded eyes—she also recommended several others. I chose _How to Win Back the Woman You Love_. I can't let Daniel hurt her again. If she'd moved on with a worthy man, I might be prepared to concede. Daniel is not that man.

Before that shopping expedition, I spoke to my mother—first good long conversation we'd had since returning from Hong Kong.

Her first question was, of course, about whether I'd spoken to B, adding, "Though I suppose you might have said something to me already if you had."

Meaning 'if I'd gotten back together with her.' "I've tried," I said. "Every single time, though, something's happened to torpedo it."

"And what's stopping you from picking up the telephone when you're done with this call?"

I paused before answering. "She's seeing someone else, I think."

"I don't know, Mark," said my mother. "I'm sure Pam would have said something."

I supposed she had a point.

"Why don't you come to stay with us over the weekend?" she asked unexpectedly. "Your father won't call you himself, but he's been wanting to make revisions to his will."

I thought ahead to the following weekend, realised I'd booked it up already. "How about the weekend after that?"

"That's the one I meant, sorry. And if you come up early enough on Friday… there's a Lifeboat Book Club reading. It's supposed to be ladies-only, but I think Bridget might be there, so if you don't get a chance to talk to her before then…"

I smiled to myself. "I'll plan on it."

Tues, 22 Jul

Have just had call from my mother. "Northamptonshire is all abuzz with talk of Bridget having a holiday in Thailand."

"By herself?"

"I don't know."

I didn't know which was worse: the thought she was going on her own, or the thought she was going with someone like Daniel.

"Pam made a point to tell me, as did Una and Penny," she went on. "Mark, you must speak up before she goes."

I was working on that.

Thurs, 24 Jul

Answerphone message from Rebecca, cloyingly sweet and apologetic. Deleted it.

Thurs, 31 Jul

Have now finished the books I'd previously bought—can't read and update journal at the same time—and this evening returned to Waterstone's for _What Women Want_. Have thus resisted the last of the recommendations because I'm trying to be optimistic.

Heading for Huntingdon directly after work tomorrow.

Fri, 1 Aug

_23.55_

Book club party—and a chance to talk to B—was tonight. I left London straight from work in order to drive my parents to Grafton Underwood (my father's a menace as a driver on the best of days). I dropped my mother off; as apparently prearranged, we exchanged her for Colin Jones. We went to the pub to wait for the event to be over.

They offered to buy me a drink, but I wanted to keep my wits about me for the talk I hoped to have with B afterwards. "I'm driving," I demurred, then ordered a soda water with lime.

"Bah! We'll be here for at least an hour. Live a little, Mark," he said, lifting his port to toast with Mr Jones'.

"I'd rather not."

The more they'd got in them, the more they harassed me for abstaining. I half-expected more of a bollocking from Bridget's father, to be perfectly honest. I'd've deserved it.

After the two of them had gotten downright pissed, I herded them towards my car and made them both sit in the back. "So you came alone?" asked my father. "Where's that bird you brought 'round a few times?"

No, I thought. I was not about to discuss Rebecca with my pissed father in front of the father of the woman I loved. I muttered an noncommittal answer and he said, "Bah! Stop mumbling!"

Once we got to driving, though, he was distracted soon enough. "You want real poetry," went on my dad, "this is real poetry." In the mirror I saw my father pull out a piece of paper. "Kipling, now there's a real poet. You see? You see?"

"Absolutely! _This_ is what poetry's all about!" declared Mr Jones.

They then began to recite lines, stumbling over words as much as they'd stumbled over their own feet getting to the car.

When I drew near to the Alconburys', pausing to look for a place to park the car, my father and Mr Jones surprised me with their agility in jumping from the car and going off towards the house.

By the time I found a place to put the car, it seems that the two of them had gotten most of the way through the Kipling poem ('If'), dramatic poses on the carpet and all. Humiliating. My eyes, though, fixed on B. As they finished, a man dressed in something that looked like a vest made of leather stormed past me, fury visible on his face, followed by B's friend Tom. B, following their exit from the room, looked directly into my eyes.

"Well!" said my mother, who came to join me just as B looked away. "That was interesting! Poetry uniting the old and young."

"The pissed and sober," I heard B say.

I realised with the chaos of the impromptu Kipling reading and the fact that I was now having to herd home a pissed father that I might not get to speak to B as I'd hoped. I sat at the table, grabbed a bit of paper and pulled out my pen to write her a note, instead.

"My dear, my dear, my darling!" My father, to my mother. "Oh, here's what's-her-name." B, which I confirmed with a quick glance; I couldn't believe he didn't remember her name. "Lovely! Mark's arrived, that's my boy! Come to pick us up, sober as a judge. All on his own. I don't know!"

Of course he'd forgotten he'd come with me. Frantically I wrote on.

"Writing my will for me at a party! I don't know. Work, work, work!" my father went on. "Brought this bit of totty along, what was 'er name, m'dear, Rachel, was it? Betty?"

"Rebecca," said my mother as if she'd just tasted something unpleasant.

"And the next thing she's nowhere to be seen. Ask him what's happened to her, and he mumbles! Can't stand a mumbler! Never could."

"Well, I don't think she was really—" began my mother.

"Why not! Why not! Perfectly good! I don't know!" my father went on. "Fussing about this, that and the other! I hope you young ladies are not always flitting hither and thither like these young fellers seem to be!"

"No," said B in a very despondent tone. "In fact… if we love someone it's pretty hard to get them out of our system when they bugger off."

I was beyond startled to hear this from her, so I turned quickly towards her and hit this awful blue glass dolphin statue with my elbow, which in turn knocked over a huge vase of flowers and a framed photo. It all went over to the floor and the vase shattered into countless pieces of glass and a spray of water.

More chaos. Everyone rushed over. I collected up the paper I'd written on as well as a few others to camouflage what I'd been doing. "I'm terribly sorry," I muttered as Mr Jones picked up the dolphin and tried in vain to break it. "I'll pay for the damage. So sorry." And more in that fashion. I just wanted to give Bridget the note then leave. "Are you ready to go, Dad?"

"No, no, in your own time, I've been in very good company, with Brenda here. Get me another port, will you, son?"

I looked at B. She looked at me. I realised I hadn't said a word to her yet. "Hello, Bridget," came curtly from my lips. "Come on, Dad, I really think we should go."

"Yes, come along, Malcolm," my mother said, claiming his arm, "or you'll be widdling on the carpet."

"Oh, widdling, widdling, I don't know."

Apologising further to Una for the damage, I worked with my mother to steer my father towards the door. "I've got him, Mark," she said once we were outside the front door. "If you want to… you know."

I had sort of lost my courage, but I realised that I had left my pen behind in the madness of the vase-breakage. It seemed I was fated to go back after all. I nodded then went back in, heading directly towards the table—where B still stood.

"Ah, forgot my pen," I said to her as I grasped the Mont Blanc with a hand I hoped did not appear to be shaking as badly as it felt it was. Then I asked, "When are you going to Thailand?"

"Tomorrow morning," she said. My heart sunk. "How did you know I was going to Thailand?"

I smiled, remembering what my mother had said. "Grafton Underwood speaks of nothing else. Have you packed?"

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Not a single pant."

"Mark!" My father again. "Come on, boy, thought it was you who was keen to be off."

"Coming," I called back over my shoulder. I then turned back to B, digging into my pocket for the note. It was now or never. "This is for you." I gave it to her with a long look, then left the house.

Here, to the best of my recollection, is what I wrote at the table with the dolphin.

Dearest B—

I'm sorry for all the hurt I caused. I learnt the hard way that you'd been right all along, and I should've listened to you about Rebecca. We're not together and never were.

I still love you, and if you feel anything for me, if you want to give it another go, ring me tonight. Otherwise—I'll never bother you with it again, though I hold out hope that we can at least be friends.

M

The drive to Huntingdon to drop off my parents—telling my father I'd work on his will at home; I think my mother understood—then the drive home to London, was excruciating, waiting and hoping for the mobile to ring. It didn't. When I got out of the car, I ran into the house hoping that maybe she called the house number instead.

There were no messages.

I guess I'd have to accept it, then—we were to be friends only, and even that seemed optimistic. After moping for a bit, I realised I did have a valid reason to call, and if she brought up the note after that, so much the better.

I called the mobile, but it rang off to voice mail immediately (probably the battery was dead—she always had been ace at not charging that thing). I called her home number; it rang and rang until the answerphone picked up.

"Oh, Bridget," I said, striving for casualness. "It's Mark. Just wondered. You do realise it's the rainy season in Thailand? Maybe you should pack an umbrella."

Maybe I should have said to ring me back, but if she's not interested in me that way anymore, I did promise not to bother her with it again.

I hope she has a nice time in Thailand. And is careful.

Sun, 2 Aug

Went back for the last of the recommendations today: _How to Love and Lose but Keep Your Self-Esteem_.


	14. Chapter 14: 11 Aug - 5 Sept

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 14: 11 Aug – 5 Sept**

Mon, 11 Aug

In the wake of what happened just before B left for Thailand, I have channelled my feelings of frustration into something productive by returning to the squash and the five-a-side I have for so long abandoned. I come home from those feeling exhausted, and in a good way. It at least helps to offset the insomnia I've been experiencing since we split.

Fri, 15 Aug

I stopped in at my investment bank today and bumped in to Jude, who unexpectedly treated me with much more kindness than I expected, asking how I was doing, the usual exchange of small talk. Something niggled at the back of my mind, though, until I realised that it was mid-August, and that Jude and her fiancé Richard had been invited to Tuscany. I asked her about it.

"Oh, we decided after that weekend in Gloucestershire that we weren't going," she said. "In fact, I think the whole thing fell apart. Richard would rather we went on our own." After a pause, she added, "I don't want to seem unkind, but…"

"What?"

"He referred to Rebecca as a 'deranged social engineer'."

I uttered a short, sharp laugh, the sort of laugh that ricochets around the marbled walls and arched ceilings of a bank, and causes people to look at you. "Sorry," I said, feeling my collar turn a bit tight and warm.

"Don't apologise," she said, smiling too. In a more confidential tone, she added, "It's just not usual to hear laughter in an investment bank that's not hysterical or panicked." After a pause, she asked, "So, if you don't mind me asking, what happened with Rebecca?"

I preferred not to talk about it at all, but this small part of me hoped it might get back to B, and I was prepared to speak when Jude went on.

"I assume you had it out or something, because, well, you laughed just then, and she's apparently seeing Giles Benwick now."

I thought perhaps I had misheard. Giles? The same Giles who had been so distraught (presumably about his wife) he'd nearly offed himself? My expression must have said it all because Jude smiled.

"Hard to believe, I know," she said.

I bade her goodbye and left, thinking about how much nicer it all would have been if Jude and I could've been that friendly with each other from the beginning.

I should have asked her if B had returned yet.

Weds, 20 Aug

22.30

Have just had the most devastating telephone call. Was washing up in preparation for bed when the house phone rang. It was Sharon, with whom B had apparently gone to Thailand.

"Mark, hi, sorry to trouble you." Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky. "I didn't know who else to call, and Jude thought immediately of you."

"What's the matter?" I asked. I knew instantly something was wrong, and that it involved B. I was right.

"Bridget got nicked in Thailand as a pigeon."

For a moment, I felt as if I had fallen into a '30s film noir. "She what?"

"_Drugs_. She got nicked with drugs in the airport. They tried to nick me too but they had nothing on me. We've tried the Foreign Office but—"

"When did this happen?" I asked, feeling myself slip into a persona that would allow me to deal with what was going on. I couldn't otherwise handle thinking of B in a Thai prison for drugs.

"Tuesday. Yesterday. The nineteenth."

"Okay. And you said you rang up the Foreign Office."

"Yes. They did nothing, except that they kept saying she could be in for up to ten years."

My mind raced; I couldn't believe in a million years that B would willingly participate in drug smuggling. "What happened?"

She didn't reply right away. "It was a man we met in Thailand. I'm afraid he duped us." Another pause. "Well, me, really."

"Tell me what happened. Everything."

And she did. Turns out she'd met this fellow—Jed? Jeb?—on the plane to Thailand, and he'd been quite a good guy to know as he seemed a seasoned adventurer peppering them with all kinds of tales. "Like he knew to drink gin and tonics for the quinine. He just seemed—" She stopped. I got the impression that maybe she'd gotten involved with this character. "Anyway, when our bags got pinched he gave us a replacement. I can only think something must have been in the bag, because I went ahead for the plane at the airport while she had all the luggage and the bag was the only thing we had that we hadn't come with and… how else would she have had drugs? This is all my fault… if I hadn't gotten tangled up with… I don't know what I'll do if…"

She didn't have to continue. After I let her get it all out, I took a deep breath then spoke. "Okay. Tell you what I'll do. Let me ring up my contacts at Amnesty and Interpol. That's a pretty elaborate scheme, what he did to you two. If the man who orchestrated this managed not to get caught himself—because surely he had someone watching and waiting to see the bag made it through—I'm sure he's done it before, probably even out of Bangkok. And if he's done it before, he's learned from his mistakes… and he probably has a record of some kind. So if he does…"

I heard her burst into sobs, for which I was thoroughly unprepared. "Thank you, Mark."

"Don't thank me yet," I said, trying to keep my tone level, but still optimistic. "I'll ring you back when I have news. Um. Your number?"

I took it down (and Jude's as well) then gave her my mobile in turn. They said call any time, day or night. Immediately after I went down for my attaché and made as many phone calls as I could despite the hour. Fortunately I have good working relationships with my contacts, and they could tell this was of some urgency with me. They reassured me that I would be contacted at first opportunity. I then rang back Sharon, who again expressed gratitude.

I told her to please save it for when B's returned. I can't lie—I'm worried for her. The conditions in the prison, how's she's being treated—and a blonde Englishwoman is bound to stand out in the crowd.

Thurs, 21 Aug

Spoke with Sharon. She said they had tried to ring up B's parents, but they got an answerphone message saying they were on holiday, too. Also mentioned ringing up the Alconburys (B must have mentioned them or something) but decided against it.

"Probably wise. I know the Northamptonshire contingent quite well. Everyone there would just get hysterical."

I heard Sharon chuckle.

I let her know that I'd heard from my contacts. "Oh, they know who he is, all right. They know _where_ he is, too."

Startled gasp. "They do?"

"Yes," I said. "Dubai."

Silence. "They keep track of people?"

"They keep track of people like him. I'm pretty sure they know who he is and that he did it, based on M.O. alone. Gets someone in line behind the unwitting pigeon, then if it all goes bad, that person rings him up to let him know. Always heads to Dubai to lie low after a failed run, and he's there now. It's a matter of pushing the right buttons, making the right connections."

I'm prepared to leave at a moment's notice if I have to. I feel so much more confident than I did just a day ago.

Fri, 22 Aug

Roger Dwight is the man's name, he's in Dubai, and I'm in the air now to see what I can do on the ground there. I've got the support of Amnesty and Interpol—they're putting pressure on, too.

Mon, 25 Aug

_Dubai City, Dubai_

Seems we have the weight of the Foreign Office behind us now as well, someone called Alfred Palmer-Thompson, who is leading the charge. I spoke with him myself—it seems his son, Charlie, is the assistant to the British Consul there in Bangkok—Charlie's the one who has been seeing B in prison. (As much as I wanted desperately to ask about her, how she was, I didn't.) Startling that they are acting with such vigour, particularly as it's Summer Bank Holiday.

_Later_

Dubai authorities have relented and will pick him up in the morning. Spoke to Palmer-Thompson again, who delivered more surprising news. "Charlie says that Miss Jones has been most insistent that they take things seriously, and kicked up such a fuss insisting that he get someone from the Drug Squad in there that one of their best men spent four hours today detailing everything about what happened." He chuckled a little. "It seems she is not one to take things lying down."

Also learned from him that the Foreign Office let the two of them (Sharon and Jude) send out some of B's mail to her, which she will get probably Wednesday. I don't know whether or not to hope they mentioned I was helping—surely she knows that whatever the state of our relationship I'd do whatever I could to help, but on the other hand I don't want for her to feel indebted to me.

Tues, 26 Aug

Rang up Sharon as soon as was decent given the three-hour time difference to let them know that he was in custody. I was fairly certain she hooted with joy.

Weds, 27 Aug

Have been with the authorities since morning, have faxed the Home Office a photo of Roger Dwight for Sharon for an identity parade of sorts.

(Have tried to stay indoors as much as possible during hottest part of the day—was 38° today; was almost 40° yesterday. And for the weekend, they tell me 42-44°. I shall never complain about London heat again.)

Thurs, 28 Aug

Have just received word that Sharon made a positive identification on Roger Dwight's photo. Not sure how they're going to get him to confess. If not for Amnesty's presence, I would venture a guess how.

Fri, 29 Aug

Went to the police today to observe the interrogation at James' request (from Amnesty), who had been doing so this week but had another appointment this morning. Like every police show I've ever seen on the telly, there was a separate room behind a two-way mirror, in which I got to comfortably sit and enjoy a very potent cup of coffee. They brought in this Dwight fellow and began asking questions again, presumably from where they'd left off previously.

The man did have a bit of Harrison Ford about him, thinking back on what Sharon had said. He looked ragged and tired, but I had very little sympathy for the man I was certain had landed B in prison.

A detective (older man, greying hair, decent physical shape; I later learned his name was Pradesh) came in just afterwards, looking almost as tired, carrying a stack of papers contained within a folder and a detective's notebook, as well as his own coffee. Another man (more of a constable than detective) came in to give the prisoner a glass of water, then left again. The detective sat, took a pen from his front pocket, and began to make notes.

He turned towards where he knew I was and I swore he smiled a little before he began. The same water-delivering constable then joined me in the room, bearing an official-looking report. We nodded to each other in acknowledgement.

"So, Mr Dwight, yesterday you said that you met the girls, took them out for more than one meal, helped them when they had trouble in their hut, paid for their train tickets."

Dwight ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. "As I've already said, yes."

"But that you did not give to them anything for their possessions when their luggage was stolen."

"No, I told you, I gave them a holdall."

Silence as Pradesh wrote. I could see he was writing in something that was not English. "All right. The record is corrected to say that you admit to giving them the… holdall that had the drugs in it."

"No, no," Dwight said with irritation, as if he were being inconvenienced about a tepid breakfast. "You're putting words in my mouth. I gave them a holdall. It did _not_ have drugs in it."

More writing. "Okay, all right, I see, I see." Silence as he took a sip of coffee. "You do know, Mr Dwight, that we are aware of your previous arrests."

"All charges were dropped. There was no proof."

"That is true, that is true," he said. More writing. I could not begin to imagine where this was going. "No proof. That does remind me, we have had a positive identification of you with the women."

"So what? I've already admitted to befriending them!" Dwight's temper was escalating. "This is bordering on harassment. You've held me since Tuesday, asking the same questions repeatedly…"

"I do apologise," he said with the placidness I'd only ever seen of a hotel concierge. Pradesh glanced to the mirror again with a penetrating look; at this apparent cue, the constable beside me left hastily. "Oh, there is just one more thing. The matter of the fingerprints on the polythene bag."

Dwight laughed derisively, but his tone was still angry when he spoke again. "You know as well as I do that I don't have any."

"That is true. Forgive me."

As I pondered the thought of what had to have happened to result in no fingertips, the constable appeared in the interrogation room again with that report. He handed it to the detective.

"Ah, at last," he said. "Thank you. I've been waiting for this." He opened it. "The reason we kept you so long, and I am sorry, but it looks like we were right to do so. The DNA testing was a match."

I didn't think it possible for Dwight's face to go redder, but it did, and he stood, pounding the table with his fist, exploding with fury: "Bullshit! I wore glov—" He stopped, realising his error at once, then sank back to the seat. "I mean—"

Pradesh sat back and smiled in satisfaction, reminding me, oddly, of the Cheshire cat. "I think I can safely say that, in front of witnesses—" He nodded towards where I still sat, my identity shielded by the mirror. "—you have confessed to placing the drugs in the bag, after admitting to giving the holdall to the girls. You can make a full confession and make it easy on yourself as we prosecute you here, or refute the confession and make it very difficult once you're in Thai custody."

In that moment I saw all of the fight go out of Roger Dwight. He leaned back into the chair, then he nodded.

I departed the observation room, and as I did Pradesh left the interrogation room. I introduced myself then said, "Well done, sir." I glanced down to the report, then put the whole thing together; the constable waiting with me, the cue, the timely re-entrance. "That isn't even a real DNA report, is it?" I surmised.

He grinned. "I'm a very big fan of 'Columbo.' Very big fan indeed."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but I was very glad, all the same.

The moment I got back to my hotel I rang up Sharon. It was midday where I am, so not too early in London. I still seemed to wake her up.

"Sharon?"

"What?" she asked groggily.

"It's Mark."

"Mark!" She was instantly awake. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing wrong," I said. "In fact, I have great news."

"Did he confess?!" she exclaimed, taking the wind out of my sail. I confirmed that he had. She screamed excitedly. "Surely Bridget gets to come home now! _Surely_!"

"Believe me, I will do all I can to ensure that happens." I explained that the Foreign Office is keen to keep this under wraps as much as possible, the fact that they and the local authorities did little to investigate at first, and were content with letting her possibly spend a decade in prison halfway around the world. There's a pretty big tourist industry there, and I doubt they want to jeopardise that.

Before we disconnected, she said, "Mark, one last thing—you do know it's okay to call me Shaz, don't you?"

I smiled and stopped myself shy of saying thanks—because I felt maybe B's friends finally liked me at last, damn the small detail that B and I were no longer seeing each other. "If you prefer."

Sun, 31 Aug

Strange to have had so much communication from the Foreign Office, then nothing. Possibly the sudden silence is related to the news about Diana, which of course reached us here. Tragic. An international champion of so many causes.

Tues, 2 Sept

Still in Dubai. I finally got word that B is home in London. Was put on a plane and arrived home Saturday. As deeply involved as I've been with the arrest and questioning, I can't go home until Thursday, but I wanted her to know I was happy to hear she was home, because surely Sharon and Jude told her I was helping. I decided to ring her home number. It didn't surprise me in the least that she was not there to answer.

Left answerphone message, but the end might have got cut off. Perhaps best that it did: "Bridget, I've only just got the news. I'm delighted you're free. Delighted. I'll be back later in the week if you want to have a coffee or something."

In the busy-ness and excitement of everything it almost slipped right by that it was two years yesterday since I started keeping journal entries.

Thurs, 4 Sept

Back now in London. I should stay home and sleep tomorrow as it's very close to midnight, but I should also get back to routine and back into this time zone.

Fri, 5 Sept

_Notting Hill Police Station_

_15.30_

Since I'm stuck waiting here and happen to have this journal with me, I may as well record the tumultuous events of today. It all began this morning in the Coins Café, where I went in (no use in denying it) with the hope I'd run into B, since I knew she liked to stop in for breakfast on occasion. I went in, set my case down, and did a scan of the place. To my great joy I saw her at a table with her typical chocolate croissant, cappuccino, and a little shiny gift box. She must have seen me first because she was already looking at me. As pleased as I was to see her, I felt a sense of dismay and concern at seeing how thin and gaunt she'd gotten in such a short time.

I drew nearer to her table. "Hello," I said, in probably in too curt a tone, but I didn't want to play it too overly friendly given she had not called back before she'd gone. I indicated the box with a tilt of my head, then asked, "What have you got there?"

She picked up the box and handed it to me. "I don't know what it is. I think it might be a biro."

I opened the box and within—well, needless to say that while it had her name engraved on the side, it was not in fact a pen. I placed it hurriedly back into the box. "Bridget, this isn't a promotional biro, it's a fucking bullet."

I grabbed a napkin, took hold of the lid, and set it back into place as she murmured something to herself.

"What?" I asked, thinking to myself, 'Don't say what, say pardon.'

"Nothing."

She looked and acted genuinely stunned. "Stay here. Don't touch it. It's a live bullet." I dashed away, out and to the street—why I did this, I'm not sure; I suppose I expected to find a constable happening to pass by, which was sort of foolish in retrospect—then I went back into Coins to find she hadn't moved position at all, not even to sip her cappuccino. "Bridget? Have you paid up? What are you doing? Come on."

She blinked as if utterly unable to comprehend. "Where?"

"The police station." As if I hadn't spent enough time in those lately.

Once we got into my car, she started to talk in a nervous, fill-the-silence way. "I'm really, really grateful for what you did to get me out of jail, what you must have had to do to pull so many strings, for going all the way to Dubai—" (Would have gone to Thailand if I'd had to.) "—and I just don't know what I would have done without the poem. It helped me so much in jail."

I swung 'round the corner into Kensington Park Road. Had no idea what she meant. "Poem? What poem?"

"The 'If' poem; you know, 'force your heart and nerve and'… oh, God, I'm really sorry you had to go all the way to Dubai; I'm so grateful, I…"

I got to a stoplight at that moment and turned to face her. "That's absolutely fine," I said with tenderness. "Now stop auto-wittering gibberish. You've had a big shock. You need to calm down."

I swear she pouted as she sat back into the seat.

We arrived at the station and were met with… well, indifference at best. Told repeatedly to go to the waiting room, but I rather forcefully insisted we be taken upstairs at once. We were brought to an empty office (that had clearly seen better days) with the promise that someone would be in soon.

While we waited, I asked her to tell me everything she could about Thailand. The details of meeting the well-travelled, knowledgeable stranger lined up with what Sharon had told me, the hut being burgled, the holdall offered to get their things home.

I got up and began to pace as I organised my thoughts. "What about this fellow, then? Did he ever mention contacts in the UK?"

"No," she said.

"And did the box come with the regular post?"

"I think so. There's this table downstairs, you recall, and sometimes if mail is misdirected, we'll put it on the table for the right person to pick it up."

I did recall. "Did the package have postage on it? Your mailing address?"

"I don't remember. It was in brown paper though."

"So someone might have set it on the table."

"Yes, I suppose they might have."

I paced some more, then looked to her. "Have you seen any strange people lurking around your building?"

She shook her head again. "No stranger than usual, anyway."

She looked really nervous, and I realised I was pacing around and asking questions like she was a witness in court. I sat again. "The worst you and Shaz could be accused of was breath-taking stupidity." I offered a small smile. "You did very well in jail, I heard." She didn't respond; idly glancing to my watch, I said, "Do you think you'd better call work?"

She gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth.

I couldn't help laughing. "Don't look like you've just accidentally eaten a child. For once you've got a decent excuse for your pathological lateness."

I could tell straightaway that the call was not going well. She looked like she was going green. From what I could tell, from every conversation we'd had together about him, that boss of hers is a mean-spirited bully. I reached for the phone. "Give it to me."

"No!" she said, reeling back as if I were about to poke her with a hot iron. "I'm a person in my own right."

"Of course you are, darling, just not in your own right _mind_."

As I said it, as natural as it was to call her 'darling', I regretted the slip—if it bothered her, though, she didn't show it. She returned to her telephone call with Richard Finch. "I'm in the police station," she said, then, "I've had a death threat."

I could hear the excited tone of voice through the earpiece; I don't know what it was exactly that caused her to lose her temper, but she did.

"Richard," she said in a level, cool-steel voice, "that, I'm afraid, is like the kettle calling the frying pan 'dirty bottom.' Except that I haven't got a dirty bottom because I don't take drugs. Not like _you_. Anyway, I'm not coming back. Bye." She put the phone back onto its receiver with more force than strictly necessary, looking triumphant for a moment until her features fell.

Before I had a chance to ask, a policeman appeared at last. I banged the desk hard with my fist. "Look! We've got a girl with a live bullet with her name on here. Can we see some action?"

He gave me an odd look. "It's the _funeral_ tomorrow," he said impatiently (which I'd forgotten all about), "and we've got a knifing in Kensal Rise. I mean there are other people who have already _been_ murdered." He then left rather abruptly. It took every ounce of will to not sock the guy in the face, but a policeman in a police station… and me, a barrister… would not have done at all.

A long ten minutes passed before a detective came by. He introduced himself as DI Kirby, and he seemed pleasant enough, though quite gruff, and preoccupied (understandably) with the funeral. He brought in a file folder that included the fillet steak incident, but had details of Thailand too. I got a glimpse of it while he was on the phone with another station, but didn't see much before he shielded it from view.

"What did the report say about Jed?" she whispered to me.

"'Jed' he said his name was, did he?" I asked; I hadn't ever been clear on the alias he'd used with them. "Roger Dwight, actually."

Although Kirby was on the telephone, he clearly missed nothing, for the moment he put down the phone he said, "Roger Dwight. It's kind of pointing that way, isn't it?"

It did seem the most logical choice, but why B? Why not Sharon Shaz? "I'd be very surprised if he's managed to organise anything himself. Not from Arabian custody."

Kirby looked thoughtful. B looked a bit put-out. "Well, there are ways and means," Kirby said.

"Excuse me," she said indignantly. "Could I possibly participate in this conversation?"

I said, "Of course, as long as you don't bring up any bottoms or frying pans."

The perplexed expression of Kirby was matched by the speechlessness of B; I intended to dominate this conversation despite her protest. I went on, speaking directly to Kirby again: "He could, I guess, have organised someone else to send it, but it seems somewhat unlikely, foolhardy even, given…"

"Well, yes, in cases of this kind." The telephone shrilled; he excused himself to answer it. It was more bickering about tomorrow's cortege plans.

As he rung off again B prompted, "In cases of this kind…?"

"Yes," said Kirby, "it's unlikely that a person with serious intentions would advertise his—"

"You mean they'd just shoot her, right?"

I wished she hadn't asked, because I had a feeling that's where he might be going with it. She paled as he nodded, confirming my question.

The snippy policeman from earlier came in to take the box off to be examined; Kirby continued questioning B. "Is there anyone outside from the Thai connection who has a grudge against you, young lady? An ex-lover perhaps, a rejected suitor?"

She seemed to be in her own little world.

"Bridget?" I prompted tenderly. "Whatever you're thinking, I think you should tell DI Kirby."

So she did.

"Well, it all started because he claimed I didn't know where Germany is."

"Who's 'he'?"

She glanced to me fleetingly. "Daniel Cleaver. My ex." She straightened up in her seat. "When I called him to dispute this claim, he sounded sad. I mean, in general, not about Germany. He asked me out for supper, and I thought, why not, why shouldn't I be his friend?"

I couldn't believe my ears. Dinner as friends with a man like Daniel? My anger was building. She can be too damned trusting. First this with Daniel, then what happened in Thailand…

"So the dinner, then. That was the trouble?"

She nodded. "Well, it probably would have gone all right if we'd just gone to dinner. But there was this thing with my friend Tom's mobile, and I went out to the dustbins to find it—" Again she glanced to me. "—because I knew he wasn't due to pick me up yet." She went pink. "I went down in a bra and knickers." Kirby's brows rose nearly to his hairline. "With a coat over! But I'm afraid he got quite the wrong idea when he turned up early."

"This Cleaver fellow."

"Yes."

The more I heard, the angrier I got:

"So obviously I needed to get dressed so we went upstairs, which… in hindsight was a mistake."

"Did he attack you?" Kirby asked with concern in his voice.

"Not 'attack', no. But there were some… unwanted advances." Again she glanced to me, and this time, Kirby did too. I tried to control my features—anger towards Daniel, guilt for my own inaction—but I'm afraid he must have noticed (obviously, given I'm still here). "He broke down when he told me he'd gotten promoted downstairs. I felt bad for him, but I still made him go." After a moment, she added, "But I don't think it's him. I can't see him making death threats just because I rejected him and kicked him out."

(Also obviously, I was pleased that she had.)

Kirby made more notes. "Have you been involved with any lowlife characters at all?" She mentioned something that sounded like 'Geoffrey's rent boy,' but surely I misheard. "You're going to have to move out of your flat. Is there anywhere you can go?"

Immediately I offered. "You can stay with me," with which I quickly amended, lest she thought I meant to overstep the bounds I'd promised in the note, "in one of the spare rooms."

Kirby narrowed his eyes at me, which took me by surprise. "Could you give me a moment, sir?"

It took me a few moments to realise he was asking me to leave, and I had a feeling what he might be asking once I left. "Of course," I said, then went out into the hallway.

I admit I stood near to the door to try to catch snippets of the conversation. When I heard Kirby making mention of my apparently coincidental appearance at Coins, I knew I was right: Kirby suspected I was involved. I went back into the room. "Okay," I said with resignation, glancing to B. "Print me, DNA me, let's get this out of the way."

"I'm not saying it was you, sir," said Kirby in such a way that made me think of the famous 'the lady doth protest too much' line from Shakespeare. "It's just we have to eliminate the—"

I interrupted, "All right, all right. Let's go get on with it."

So now I've been here for something like two hours now, waiting mostly while they get someone to take samples. I'd better put this back in my case lest someone get ideas about looking at it.


	15. Chapter 15: 6 Sept - 14 Sept

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 15: 6 Sept – 14 Sept**

Sat, 6 Sept

I ended up spending seven hours with the police yesterday. They can't tell me where B is until they've cleared me. I like to think it's some posh police safe house but it's more likely she's bunking with one of her friends. Since I don't want to further raise the ire of DI Kirby, I'll refrain from trying to track her down.

It was distinctly unsettling to be the direct subject of an interrogation, though. Kirby was pleasant enough, but I could tell I was close to the top of his list of suspects. He took me back to his office shortly after I finished writing the previous entry.

"So, what exactly is your relationship to Miss Jones?" he asked.

"We're friends," I said.

"And what _was_ your relationship with her?"

He really doesn't miss anything. "We used to date."

"So it's no matter at all to you that she was entertaining Mr Cleaver in a bra and pants."

"Of course it matters to me," I snapped.

As Kirby grinned slyly to me, I knew this was the reaction he was hoping for.

"I mean," I went on, "he happened upon her early during an… unusual circumstance, and tried to take advantage to her. I should have known he might try something like that, with the way he was looking at her—"

"Hold on, there," Kirby interrupted. "You were there at the dustbin with Miss Jones and Mr Cleaver?"

No wonder cautions are read at time of arrest. "I did happen to be there. Yes."

More furious note-taking. "So…" he said. "That is quite a coincidence."

"It is nothing more than that."

"So you hadn't taken it upon yourself to keep tabs on Miss Jones? Perhaps feeling jealous that she was seeing Mr Cleaver?"

"No," I said. "I had no idea she had been planning to dine with him. I certainly didn't expect to see her outdoors in—wearing what she was wearing," I corrected myself.

"I expect you didn't," he said, "but sounds like you didn't mind at all."

"Now wait a minute," I said hotly.

"Did I touch a nerve?"

The door opened then; it was someone come to fingerprint me. Once that was done, I was left alone with Kirby again as I attempted to clean the ink from my fingers with an alcohol wet wipe (and feeling like a common criminal as I did so). I had had just about enough of the questioning at this point.

"Detective Inspector," I said, attempting to appeal to reason. "If I wanted Miss Jones dead, would I really have spent so much time and effort trying to get her out of the Thai prison?"

"I don't know," he said, inspecting his fingernails. "Perhaps you went through all of that trouble, and she won't take you back. Perhaps you resent that a little bit."

"But I only arrived home from Dubai on Friday. I haven't talked to her directly since before her trip, and today was the first time I've seen her since she's been back."

"Coincidentally, of course," he countered.

"Yes, for the last time, _coincidentally_," I emphasised. "There's the matter of the bullet. How on earth would I have had time to get a bullet engraved since Friday?"

"There are ways and means," he said, repeating himself from earlier.

"Perhaps you should be running down places that can do such engraving, unless I am your suspect," I said, my temper rising again. "Do I need to retain counsel?"

"Oh, we intend on doing just that," he said. "Parallel lines of enquiry." He made a motion with his hands to suggest parallel lines. "As for needing counsel… we'll see. You do admit to touching the box and bullet, don't you?"

"I did touch it, yes."

"Hm."

With nothing further, he again left me to wonder if I might not seriously be in trouble.

By the time someone from the lab came to take a sample for the DNA testing, I'd been there, as I said, for nearly seven hours. To his credit, DI Kirby was there to see me out with an admonition not to leave town, and that they'd call when they had news. I wished him luck the following day.

"Thanks," he said. "It just occurred to me, you know, that the intention isn't to shoot her after all. Maybe… just frighten her enough to need to be rescued."

I'm not sure I liked what he was insinuating.

_Later_

Spent most of today trying to work, but too worried about B to concentrate. I would feel better if I knew where she was and was reassured she was safe.

Sun, 7 Sept

_23.30_

Got a call bright and early this morning that I'd been sufficiently cleared through fingerprint and preliminary DNA testing—not that they didn't find my fingerprints (because obviously, they did), but that there were others that couldn't be accounted for—and they let me know she was staying with Shaz. So I waited until the decent hour of ten before ringing up B. Calls to the mobile went nowhere (battery likely drained beyond sense without its charger), so I dialled Shaz's house phone directly.

B answered in a quiet voice: "Hello?"

"Well, they've realised I'm not a homicidal ex-lover," I said. "How are you?"

"All right," she said, not sounding all right in the least, but rather, a terrible attempt at it. "And you?"

"Fine, given they kept me for seven hours waiting to be tested," I said light-heartedly. "I'd have called sooner but they wouldn't tell me where you were 'til they'd cleared me."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said; then she tried to resume the cheeriness as she whispered, "The girls are both here and I don't want to wake them. It's a bit of a squash here, to be honest."

"Well, the offer's still open to come and stay with me," I said, trying to sound casual. Then, concerned I'd overstepped the friendship bounds, I added, "Plenty of bedrooms."

There was a pause, then a bit of a crashing sound.

"Thanks," she whispered. "I'd love to come."

I offered to pick her up from Shaz's flat but she told me that she had to ring up the police to have an escort. She arrived a little after 11.30 and I showed her to a room that probably seemed to her to be as sterile and spartan as a room in a hospital. This embarrassed me, for some reason. (That and the chair in the room seemed bigger than B. What had I been thinking?)

It was probably just as well that I had to go in to work to make up for missing Friday because I'm not sure how I would have done knowing B was just a few rooms away from mine. When I told her I had to go to work, she asked, "Is it all right if Jude and Shaz come around later?"

"That's perfectly fine."

I came home around nine bearing pizzas for us both. She looked as if she'd just awakened, adorable with hair askew and sleepy expression. But it seemed clear that she had no interest in anything but dinner, and so I tiptoed around conversation and tried my best to keep everything from going awkward—though everything was, in fact, quite so.

I retired to my room, where I realised I ought to ring up Analyn (despite it being later than I usually like to ring up people) to let her know that B was staying over, so not to be surprised when she came to clean. "Oh!" she said delightedly. "You are back together! How wonderful!"

"No," I said sadly. "We aren't." I then asked her not to say anything to anyone, that it was sort of a secret—given the view she has of me, I don't think she will.

"Is too bad," she said, referring back in the conversation. I agreed.

Mon, 8 Sept

B was still in bed when I got up for work. Before I left, I could not resist looking in on her as she slept, all tucked away in the midst of the enormous expanse of white linens, curled up and fast asleep. When I returned home, she was asleep once more; there was evidence she'd been in and out again (Exhibit A: a carrier bag from Debenhams). Hope she had some supper.

Tues, 9 Sept

_02.00_

Though I'm sleepy, I can't fall to sleep. I do not know how much longer I can bear being here in the house with her, so close yet so far away. Maybe some warm milk will help… or a glass of wine.

Weds, 10 Sept

Shortly after the last entry, I had a life-altering experience.

Went to kitchen in search of said milk/wine, but couldn't find the bloody light switch, so resigned myself to returning to bed unsatisfied. As I approached the stairs back up to the main part of the house, I realised that I was not alone. There was a figure moving there, descending the stairs. I felt a wave of panic come over me. Had I not enabled the alarm system? I am ashamed to admit it, but I screamed. Didn't even realise at the time I was. I realised the figure (smaller than I am, female) was screaming too, then,

"It's me. It's Bridget."

I sank to the stairs, head in hands, trembling like a leaf, repeating "oh" again and again. Suddenly she was there, next to me, her arms around me, holding me close. "Oh, God," I said, relishing the embrace. "I feel such an arse."

A weird sound came out of her; I realised she was laughing, probably at how absurd this was. I began laughing too.

"Oh, Christ," I said. "It's not very manly, is it, getting scared at night. I thought you were the bullet man."

Suddenly felt her fingers combing through my hair; felt her place a tender kiss on the top of my head. "Mark," she said quietly, "this is really very hard for me to say because you may not feel the same anymore, but…" Great long pause. Heart hammered in chest. "I love you, and I've never stopped."

There was more that she said about being sorry for everything that happened, for the miscommunication, for assuming the worst, for the pain that phone conversation had caused, but I barely heard it for the words she'd spoken: I love you. I couldn't recall she'd ever said it to me before, not even when I'd confessed my love in Courcheval. I turned where I sat and took her properly into my arms, becoming slightly more aware as I did that I was not wearing anything. I didn't care.

"Oh, Bridget," I murmured, pulling her close to me, telling her I hadn't stopped loving her, either, that I too was sorry for my part in every misunderstanding.

We sat there holding one another for many long moments, when she chuckled a little under her breath. When I asked what was funny, she said, "I only just came down for something warm to drink."

"So did I," I confessed.

We went back into the kitchen; she found the switch with more ease than I ever had, then had a bit of an adventure locating the Horlicks and milk before making some. As we drank it afterwards, sitting near to the hob to keep warm, we began talking about our mutual revelation again.

"You see, the thing is, when you didn't reply to my note, I thought that was it, so I didn't want you to feel I was putting any pressure on. I—"

"Wait, wait," she interrupted. "What note?"

"The note I gave you at the poetry reading, just before I left."

She stared at me as if I were mental. "But it was just your dad's 'If' poem."

I stared back. I realised then exactly how brave it had been to say what she said. "I was writing you a note on the table there."

"Not your dad's will?"

I shook my head. "It was my mother who said the only thing to do was to be honest about my feelings," I said. She smiled. "I said… that I still loved you, that I wasn't with Rebecca, and that if you felt the same way to call me that night—and otherwise, I wouldn't bother you with it again and just be your friend."

She blinked quickly—it was more obvious than ever that she really hadn't seen the note. "So why did you leave me and go off with her?"

"I didn't!" I said with slight exasperation—but at least we were talking. Thinking back again to that awful phone call, I said, setting down my empty cup, "It was you who left me! And I didn't even bloody realise I was supposed to be going out with Rebecca 'til I got to her summer house party and found myself in the same room as her."

"But… so you didn't ever sleep with her?"

"Well." I looked down, smirking a bit despite myself, because I knew how she'd react, and I could laugh about it now. "That night."

"What?!"

"I mean one's only human. I was a guest. It seemed only polite." She put her mug down then began batting at my head with her fists, playfully, of course; I averted her so-called blows. "As Shazzer says, men have these desires eating away at them _all_ the time. She just kept inviting me to things: dinner parties, children's parties with barnyard animals, holidays…"

We were both laughing now.

"Yeah, _right_. And you didn't fancy her at all!"

"Well, she's a very attractive girl, it would have been odd if—" Suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore. I stopped laughing, took her hands, pulled her close. "Every time," I whispered, "_every_ _time_ I hoped you'd be there. And that night in Gloucestershire, knowing you were fifty feet away…." I thought back to that night, to thinking of B.

"Two hundred yards in the servants' quarters," she corrected, being overly literal.

"Exactly where you belong and where I intend to keep you 'til the end of your days," I teased; surely she would have tried to hit me again, had I not still had her hands captive. I brought her close, nuzzled into the hair just over her ear. "The house is big, cold and lonely without you; I always liked your flat better, where it was cosy." I took in a breath. "I love you, Bridget—I'm not exactly sure why, or if it's even possible to know why, but I don't care. Nothing's any fun without you."

I let go of her hands, wrapped my arms around her, and kissed her as I'd only wanted to do for six very long months. Things got a little out of hand; we ended up in a tangle of limbs on the kitchen floor before I realised it was very cold, and too hard a surface. Not optimal for celebrating a reconciliation. We seemed to agree without words that we should head upstairs, which I tried to do with as much dignity as I could.

When we got back upstairs, she immediately headed for the nightstand and asked, "What's this?"

I had forgotten about my bedside mini-library of self-help books.

She read off the titles in disbelief. In response, I stupidly said, "Oh."

"You bastard!" she said, looking both exasperated and amused as she came towards me. "I threw all mine away!" I remembered the trash bin heaping with books. Then she began to playfully punch at me again; she landed a few soft pats before I grasped her wrists, bought them up behind her back.

"I've learned a lot from them," I said, bringing her up against me, loving the feeling of having her there, "but there's really only one thing I need to know right now."

"What?"

"Don't say 'what', Bridget," I said in a low voice before I kissed her.

We did little speaking after that, and not again for a very long time.

When I woke again I did so in a bit of a panic—must have been dreaming about the mysterious bullet man or something—to find B gazing down upon me. All memories of last night flooded back: our confessions, our kisses, our lovemaking, our falling asleep in the wee hours clung to each other. I reached for her, brought her down to lie against me.

"Sorry," she said.

"Yes, you should be, you dirty little bitch," I teased close to her ear. "What for?"

"Waking you up by staring."

I laughed low in my throat. "You know what? I kind of missed it."

With that we were at it once more. After all, there was a lot of lost time to make up. When the phone rang, before she had the slightest inkling to dive for it, I hissed for her to leave it.

The answerphone went off, and a voice resounded throughout the room: her ex-boss, Richard Finch, doing a story on "the New Celibacy," looking for a "personable young woman who hadn't had sex for six months," but deciding to "settle for any old woman who can't get laid and try you."

Given the activity in which she was engaged, I wanted to laugh.

When he didn't disconnect, persisted in screeching her name, insisting he knew where she was because of Shaz (had Finch been cleared?), it became apparent he wasn't going to go away. He was distracting, to boot.

I paused what I was doing—no easy feat—and reached for the phone, saying drolly, "She's just coming, sir." I then dropped the handset into a glass of water, then proceeded to follow through with my promise.

After all, I'm a man of my word.

Thurs, 11 Sept

I was very conscientious in rescheduling important appointments and cancelling those that were of lesser consequence, and as a result we spent most of our time together through today, here in my house. It's really not so bad here when I'm not alone, but I still like the cosiness of her flat better.

I'm expected for the bath.

_Later_

As we lounged in the steaming water together, I thought to ask about the Valentine's card. "Just out of sheer curiosity," I hastened to add. "Did you ever actually figure out what that was about?"

She flushed even pinker than she already was. "I thought the dry-cleaner had altered my cheque to defraud me, so I went to investigate and dropped off a nightie. The guy, Salwani, must have thought I was hitting on him." I recalled the writing in the card.

"So why did the card come to my house?"

"Oh, because I thought he might be a maniac or something."

"Thanks a lot," I said sardonically.

She laughed. "Well, I know you've got a housekeeper and an alarm and all."

"And if he's a maniac, how do you know this Salwani isn't the bullet man?"

"Well, the bullet would have come here, wouldn't it have?"

She had a point. "So, was it fraud?"

"No," she admitted sheepishly. "It was really a cheque written to Marks & Spencer Financial Services."

At this point I was still doing my best not to laugh. "And did you ever go back for the nightie?"

"Er… no," she said, again in a sheepish tone.

At this I could hold the laughter in no longer. "It wasn't the one I gave you at Valentine's, I hope."

It had not been, and she assured me she'd prove it at earliest convenience.

Fri, 12 Sept

"You've nothing to eat," B said to me as we had breakfast.

Given we were enjoying fresh-brewed coffee and muesli, I pointed out that was patently untrue.

"No, I mean… there's no, to pull an example out of thin air, ice cream." She wandered back to me from where she'd been peering into the fridge.

I laughed, drew her close to where I sat at the breakfast bar. "What do you propose we do about it?"

"Go and get some."

I thought about how too-thin she still was, post-Thailand, and how much she deserved a treat like that after all she'd endured. In that moment I made an executive decision, and after we finished breakfast etc., without ringing up the police, we went out to Tesco Metro together.

We emerged about an hour later with a cart full of food and goodies (including the desired tubs of ice cream and a chicken intriguingly labelled 'extra fat thighs'), which to my astonishment cost less than £100.

"That's incredible," I said as I went to pay, shaking my head.

"I know," she said sadly. "Do you want me to chip in?"

"God, no. This is amazing," I said, and wondered how long this would all last.

She assessed the purchase. "About a week?" she guessed.

"But that's incredible. That's extraordinary."

"What?"

I then told her I was so surprised because it was less than a single dinner at Le Pont de la Tour. She looked at me like I was an alien creature.

Because of traffic, it was near to three when we got back to the house, so we put away the groceries and began fixing dinner together. I could not help commenting—I felt as if I'd had an epiphany. What we had built over the last few days was much more than the daily habits when we first started to see one another. So much more. More than I'd had with anyone else.

"I mean it's been such a great week," I said, walking back and forth. "This must be what people do all the time! They go to work, and then they come home and the other person's there, and then they just chat and watch the television and they _cook_ _food._ It's amazing."

I turned to her. She looked like she thought I was mad, as if she were planning an escape. Began to wonder myself if I wasn't a bit bonkers. "Yes," she said with a small smile.

I went on: "I mean, I haven't rushed to the answerphone once to see if anyone's aware of my existence in the world. I don't have to go sit in some restaurant with a book, and think I could end up dying alone and…"

"…being found three weeks later half eaten by an Alsatian?" she offered.

"Exactly, exactly!" I said. We gazed at each other. I felt it was a major breakthrough. Major understanding.

"Will you excuse me a minute?" she said quietly.

"Of course," I said. "Er, why?"

"I'll just be a moment."

She went racing up the stairs; I went to chop more green onions when the telephone rang.

It was DI Kirby.

"I'm looking for Miss Jones," he said.

"She's just gone upstairs. Something I can help with?"

"We've had results," he said. "We went over to the flat, collected the brown paper wrapping which had obviously been 'round the package, as well as a glass that had larger, grubbier fingerprints on them. Had a hunch." For once I was grateful that her cleaning did not involve the white-glove test, although… I wondered whose big grubby fingers had left those prints.

"Yes, and what results have you had?"

"We've got a positive match, and are holding a suspect."

B came back to the kitchen at that moment, looking (strangely enough) perturbed. I held out the phone. "It's for you. They've got him."

With my free hand I took hers as I handed her the receiver.

"Who is it?" she asked in a breathless whisper. After a pause, she said, "He's my builder."

The pieces fell into place. The builder, Gary, who'd done up the asymmetrical book shelves, and had been the one to knock a giant hole in her flat's wall. She nodded, said "uh-huh" a few times before handing the receiver back to me to put down. "They've got Gary Wilshaw."

"Your builder."

She nodded.

"For what reason would he want to threaten you?"

"The hole in the flat wall," she said. "I mean, that must be it. I…" She hesitated.

"Tell me."

She explained that just after she was back from Thailand, seeing no progress had been made on the hole at all, she had a lawyer friend of Jude's write up a "scary legal-type letter" to prompt action.

"Sounds like it prompted action, all right," I said gently, pulling her close to me and stroking her hair. "Looks like this might soon be over."

"He said he'd call when it was safe to go back."

"So there's nothing to be done, then, but to eat supper as planned."

Sun, 14 Sept

A half-hour after that initial call on Friday night, DI Kirby called again to let her know that Gary had confessed. "He said we can go back to the flat," she said. "And not to worry about anything."

After our supper I parcelled out some of the Pralines and Cream into a bowl for dessert, but after a meagre golf-ball-sized amount, she told me to stop.

"What? Why?"

"I don't want to eat too much because…" She trailed off.

"'Because' what?"

She pursed her lips. "Because I'm full."

I recalled that during supper she had not finished everything I'd put on her plate. I thought about her obsessive calorie counting and ridiculous diet schemes, with which I had become all too familiar in our previous time together. Defiantly I scooped out more.

"You barely ate all of your dinner," I said, "and you're too thin after Thailand."

She said nothing, but when I looked at her I swore I saw her smiling.

After the ice cream, we decided to go back to the flat to spend the night. We watched a little telly in front of the fire, then I decided to have a bath. I was concluding when I heard the doorbell ring.

With a towel wrapped around my waist, I went out to investigate, noticed the door open. I went further out and heard voices. B's… and a man's.

Without thinking I raced down the stairs and punched the angry, possibly dangerous man with B in the face. As he went down against the front door with a bleeding nose, I realised I had just socked out Daniel Cleaver.

"Sorry," I said. "Um…" I reached to help the struggling Cleaver to his feet. We were not bosom buddies by any stretch, but I never thought myself capable of such a reaction. "Sorry about that," I said with the utmost politeness, trying to make amends for my rash action. "Are you all right? Can I get you, um…?"

He stared at me, rubbing his nose. "I'll be off then," he grumbled.

"Yes," I said. "I think that's best. Just make sure you leave her alone. Or, um, I'll have to, you know, do it again."

"Yup. Right."

He went off; B and I went back upstairs. I had no sooner thrown the locks when I felt her hands on my arms. "My hero," she said in a low, sultry tone, then took me by the hand and dragged me off to the bedroom.

The doorbell rang again at rather an inopportune moment. I stopped, sighed heavily, and said as I put the towel around myself again, "I'll go. It'll be Cleaver again. You stay here."

I went to the door and pushed the button. "Yes, who is it?"

"DI Kirby," came the placid voice.

Thinking he was coming with information regarding Gary, I pressed the button to allow him in and opened the flat door in anticipation. No sooner had I done so, I heard a barrage of footsteps racing up the stairs. Two burly constables grasped me by the arms as Kirby went towards the bedroom. I heard him shut the door behind him. I had no earthly clue as to what this was all about—Gary was in custody, and I had done nothing wrong.

After a few minutes, the door opened again, and I heard Kirby call, "You can come back in, Mr Darcy, if you still have the, er, _energy_."

The constables let go of my arms, but followed me into the bedroom, where I saw B sitting there, blankets pulled to her chin. DI Kirby spoke, "It seems that the panic button found its way down into the, er, middle of the action."

I felt my skin flush with my embarrassment. A quick glance told me that the constables were fighting knowing smiles.

Kirby concluded: "Okay. We're off. Enjoy yourselves." The constables retreated, and he made to leave also, but turned and added, "Oh, just one thing. The original suspect, Mr Cleaver."

B gasped. "I didn't know Daniel was the original suspect!"

"Well. We've attempted to question him on a couple of occasions and he did seem quite angrily resistant. It might be worth a call to smooth things over."

"Oh, thanks," I said with heavy sarcasm, reaching to right my slipping towel. "Thanks for telling us now."

I walked out with DI Kirby and explained what had happened earlier: "Daniel Cleaver turned up and… well, I heard a man's voice and turned instantly protective."

He raised a brow.

"I punched him."

Kirby visibly winced. "Well, you let me know if there are any further problems. You can help Miss Jones decide about pressing charges against Mr Wilshaw." I nodded, then saw him out.

When I returned to the bedroom, I found B sobbing relentlessly into her hands. Instantly I took her into my arms, smoothed her hair down, kissed her and told her everything would be all right. "I'll make certain of it," I said, "for everything you've had to go through over the last six months."

I have been making good on this promise all weekend. I've only come home long enough to dash this down, to pack a small bag and get my things for work in the morning. I've found the prospect of sleeping alone most unappealing now that I don't have to.


	16. Chapter 16: 18 Sept – 3 Oct

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

Almost there. Sniff! Errors/typos are mine.

* * *

**Chapter 16: 18 Sept – 3 Oct **

Thurs, 18 Sept

Work has been difficult due to missing so much during the bullet man fiasco, so I am especially thankful to have B back with me again. It's so nice to spend my evenings with her, to have supper together (supper that we cook together!), and talk about our days. She seems far less stressed now that she's no longer working for Richard Finch, though the fact that she's not working has placed another series of stresses on her. I keep telling her it's okay that she stay with me, that I don't mind helping her financially while she looks for another job, but she refuses. I intend on running a campaign of subterfuge: always paying at Tesco or when we go out, bringing takeaways when we're at her flat, or getting her to stay over by saying that I can't bear to sleep without her. (Which is not a lie.)

My mother was, of course, delighted to hear about our reunion. In fact, she seemed a bit smug about it, insisting she knew all along that we loved each other and things would work out. She can be smug all she likes—I don't care. I might have been smug, too, in her place.

I asked what her mother had to say. "Oh, she's happy," said B, "but she's still wrapped up in her supposed co-dependency." When I pressed for more information, she said, "She's decided she's co-dependent on fun."

I stared for a full minute before asking the obvious: "How exactly does one become co-dependent on fun?"

She shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest."

Fri, 19 Sept

Against my advice, B doesn't want to press charges against Gary for the bullet threat fiasco. He's up on other charges (theft, not from B, but from others) so will spend time in prison, just not as much as for a death threat.

"He never would have done it, Mark," she pleaded with me. "He cried when he confessed. _Cried!_ He's a bit rough around the edges, but he's not a dangerous person."

"Just a sticky-fingered one," I grumbled.

I insisted that at least we find another builder. She said she would think about it, which we both know means 'no.'

Mon, 22 Sept

Have invited B to come up to Huntingdon with me for the weekend to celebrate my parents' anniversary. Hard to believe almost a year has gone by since the ruby wedding party at my house. So much has happened since then: Portugal, Hong Kong, Thailand…

Thurs, 25 Sept

Stayed over at B's, left her sleeping while I made coffee. I had just got the cafetière to brewing when there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" I asked, though I reasoned it must have been another building resident, since they were already in the building.

"Is Bridget there?" came a voice in an indefinable accent. "It's Dan."

Dan? Curious, I opened the door to see a short (well, shorter than me) blond man with a handful of envelopes. "She's still sleeping," I said. "Dan, I'm Mark. Bridget's boyfriend."

I held out my hand and he shook it. "Nice to meet you, Mark," he said, though truthfully he sounded a bit let down. And Australian. "Didn't want Bridge to catch a cold in her nighty—" My brows raised at this—what was it with B and her nighty?—and he hastened to finish speaking, thrusting the handful of mail towards me. "—so I was just coming up with her post—I learnt my lesson putting it under the mat last Christmas season."

"You're a neighbour then?"

He nodded. "Just below, downstairs." He regarded me carefully. "Didn't know Bridge was seeing someone again."

Dan must have been out of town the night of the Cleaver punch-up/police raid (or so it felt at the time). "We were, then we split for a while, but we're back together now." I should hope he'd think so, seeing as I stood there in pyjama bottoms and vest.

"Happy for her," he said. "And you, obviously. Well, cheers."

When I mentioned over breakfast that Dan had come 'round with her post, she flushed almost scarlet. I thought again about what Dan had said, and asked, "Why did he mention your nighty?"

"My _what_? Oh, God. His obsession with me catching cold nearly made me miss all the parties I'd been invited—"

"Bridget, did you sleep with him?"

"What? No. _God_, no."

"Okay," I said calmly.

"It was long before I started seeing you," she said. "We got a bit drunk and snogged a little and he's married. At least he said he was."

I blinked, staring at her over the coffee cup I'd raised to take a sip. She burst out with a laugh.

"You don't have to look like you've eaten a child," she teased.

Mon, 29 Sept

Home from Huntingdon. Decided in advance to make a longer-than-normal weekend of it, and am very glad we did.

We drove up to my parents' in order to get there in time for supper. B expressed a doubt that my mother would be all right with her sharing a room at the house with me, but I told her she wouldn't care. "She knows we sleep together, Bridget," I said in a confidential tone.

"She'll tell my mother, and I don't want to go through that—"

She stopped suddenly.

"Go through what?"

"My mother," she said, flushing an adorable crimson. "When we first started up in January, she was so… strange about it."

I was agog. "She didn't want me sleeping with you after spending all that time trying to fix us up?"

"Not exactly," she said. "Don't know if it was all that Julio stuff but she kept going on about…" She trailed off. "If I sleep with you," she continued, then, in a perfect imitation of her mother, said, "'he'll never want to marry you, darling!'"

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," I said sharply.

Then I realised what I'd really said and felt my own skin flush. I glanced over while we drove and saw her smirking a little.

"I'm glad you think so," she said softly.

When we arrived to the house I was immediately taken aback by the sound of voices—beyond my mother's and father's—talking in the lounge. "Who else is here?" B asked me.

I set our bags down. "I honestly have no idea."

When I crossed into the doorway I'm sure the grin hadn't been so wide since… well, since the early hours of the ninth of this month. Sitting there was my brother and his wife. "Peter!" I said as they rose.

"Surprise!" said Kate with a smile. Her eyes turned towards B.

"Ah, Kate, Peter," I said, snapping to attention. "This is Bridget. My girlfriend. Bridget, this is my brother Peter, and his wife, Kate."

"Oh, yes!" she said, smiling, offering her hand to each of them. "Hong Kong. Married in June."

I don't think I'd ever told her; Peter and Kate looked to one another. "Yes," Peter said hesitantly, as if B had guessed through psychic divination.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"I told her, back in… March, was it?" said my mother with a big smile, coming up to B and putting her arm around B's shoulders. "Join me for a Black Sobranie, dear?"

I did not appreciate her encouraging B's smoking again, but I thought the bonding moment was probably a fair trade. I turned to my brother instead. "So what brings you back to London, with no warning at that?"

Peter laughed. "We were heading this way to go to Edinburgh, but decided to fly into London so we could have a visit."

"And there _was_ warning," Kate said. "We told your parents. Your mum wanted it to be a surprise today."

"_Really_ glad you're back together," said Peter as he clapped me on the shoulder. "We heard about the reunion from Mother, and how happy she is for you."

"How much nicer Bridget is than your exes," added Kate with a wink.

"I'm glad to hear it," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

"And should I start thinking about best man duties soon?" Peter teased me.

"Peter, really," said Kate with a laugh.

I did not get a chance to say anything in response because I heard the door close, a sign they were returning from the smoke break—and honestly, I still didn't know what to say. While I can't imagine my life without B, I hadn't given much conscious thought to marriage.

"I'll have to have a peek in the kitchen, but I think dinner's about ready," asked my mother with a smile.

B came and joined me where I stood and asked, "So, what have you been talking about?"

I looked to Peter, who smoothly said, "Just telling Mark we're on our way to Edinburgh but came to London first."

"Oh? What's happening in Edinburgh?"

My mother came in to confirm that supper was indeed ready, so we went to the table. Whatever Peter said in response to B's question I didn't hear it, but I figured I could just ask later. Immediately my mother began serving up dinner as if we were children again. I caught Peter's eye and grinned. I knew he was thinking what I was thinking, and mentioning it would get us nowhere.

Dinner was a fantastic spaghetti Bolognese—one of Peter's favourites—and we easily fell into conversation. I sat beside Kate, B sat next to Peter, and my father and mother took the ends. My father was in a particularly quiet mode, content with listening; either that or he was plotting out his next chess move against Brian Enderby.

"We're very pleased to meet you at last," said Peter as he turned to B. "We heard a lot of wonderful things about you, and we'd quite hoped we'd meet you at the wedding."

"I so would have loved to have been there, too," she said, her tone a bit remorseful even as a little blush stained her cheeks. I knew she still blamed herself for all that had happened, and I kept reminding her that we'd both made mistakes. For a moment our eyes met; I smiled to her, and she smiled back, then said to Peter, "I'd love to hear all about it."

"Really?" he said. "Most people start running away when I mention it."

She chuckled, Peter began talking about his wedding day and with that they were off in a galloping conversation. Kate and I chatted too—we all did, really—but it did not escape my notice that Peter was very subtly interrogating B the entire time. I should have expected it; after all, I had tried to vet my sister-in-law in my own way before she married my brother. In fact, I suspected that Kate had been assigned to distraction duty in order for him to more easily converse with B, without interruption.

We had coffee and biscuits for dessert out in the back garden. It was a beautiful, crisp evening; we were beyond twilight and into darkness. As I observed B and Kate chatting—I later learned the subject was the late Diana, Princess of Wales—I saw (in my peripheral vision) my brother come stand next to me.

"So," I joked. "What's the verdict?"

"Well, may be too early to tell," he said, then sipped his coffee. "She told me all about her Thailand adventure, and the bullet man—" Involuntarily I laughed lightly, interrupting him. "—and also mentioned she quit her job because of, and I quote, a 'mad, abusive, drug-addled maniac of a boss.'"

His tone of voice suddenly seemed too sombre. My stomach dropped into a bucket of ice water, or so it felt. I thought that surely he would want for me what I had wanted for him; someone who wasn't chasing after a fat chequebook, at the very least.

"As I said… it may be too early to tell." He upended his coffee, then turned to me. "But so far, I like her a lot, liked her when I met her last year… and she and Kate are getting along splendidly."

When I saw the broad grin slowly spreading, I knew he was taking the mickey. "Bastard," I muttered, which made him laugh.

"You should have seen your face," he said, then his smile faded a little. "In all seriousness, it's very clear to me that she loves you very much, not just wanting to be a kept woman… and that's what's really important." He paused then, like he was considering his words. "After all she's been through, with a stint in a Thai prison, death threat, mad boss… maybe you _should_ keep her a little."

I sighed, then said, "Oh, I've offered, but it earned me only a protracted lecture about fuckwittage and—"

"About _what_?" Peter interrupted.

I laughed. "Will explain later," I said, as B looked my way. "Anyway, fuckwittage and independence was the upshot of that conversation."

"I can well imagine," he said.

We then called it an early night; I was tired from working that day and then the drive, and I was sure Peter and Kate were still fighting jet lag. As I'd suspected we had a room to share—my boyhood bedroom, as a matter of fact, which B seemed apprehensive about. I asked her what was the matter.

"It's a bit odd, isn't it?" she said. "I mean… shagging in your old room?"

I looked around at the simple décor; it isn't as if my 'boyhood room' has model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, Superman printed sheets on the bed, or anything like that. Or ever had. Then I went over to the bed (a double), and pulled down the corner. "It's just a room. Plain sheets and all."

She half-smirked. "I suppose that's okay," she said. "I can promise you we'll never shag on Charlie Brown and Snoopy with Woodstock watching." I laughed. She came up and put her arms 'round my neck, pecked a kiss on my lips. She then said in a seductive tone, "I have a surprise."

The surprise was the red nighty from Valentine's which she had promised to prove she still had, and prove it she did. (And now I draw a curtain on the events of Friday.)

Over breakfast on Saturday Kate lamented forgetting her favourite dress. "I thought I'd packed it," she said, "and now I've got nothing for the meet-and-greet in Edinburgh."

"Oh," piped up B at once. "I know. It's not London, but I bet you could find something in Kettering. Let's go shopping."

Surreptitiously I glanced to Peter, who glanced to me at exactly the same moment.

"You don't mind?" said Kate, with a smile.

"Mind? It'll be fun," B said. She then looked to me. "Can I drive your car?"

My chest clutched up, even though I knew there was no valid reason to think she was a bad driver.

Peter howled a laugh. "You'd have thought she just asked if she could shoot your puppy!"

I shot him a poisonous glance. "Of course you can, darling," I said to B.

As soon as we were done they prepared to head out. I reminded her not to smoke in the car, and to not forget the safety belt. She pursed her lips but agreed, then pecked my cheek and they were off.

Once the two of them were departed, my father, until then silent from behind his newspaper, piped up with an interestingly timed insight: "I'm glad the girls are getting on so well. Already acting like sisters." I saw my mother smirk too. I began to wonder when they would begin asking me when I'd propose, already—and when I might consider claims of bicycle pump abuse to the _Sunday People_ again.

Upon their return I noticed both women looked sepulchral. "What is it?" I asked, though was half-afraid to do so.

"We had a little incident in the car park," said B. "The damage isn't too bad."

At my assuredly horrified look, the two of them burst out into laughter before B slipped a hand along my shoulder. "Kidding," she whispered into my ear, then kissed it.

I murmured, "I'll get you for that later."

"Promise?"

Kate then announced they had actually achieved their goal, and found a nice dress. I asked B if she'd found anything for herself. "I saw one really nice dress," she said, trailing off a little. I knew she hadn't got anything because she didn't have much extra pocket money.

As B went to the ladies, I took Kate aside, then told B I had to go pick up something at the butcher's for my mother for Sunday's supper. I did, but that was not the only reason I ventured back to Kettering. I gave her the dress before dinner; she smiled, got teary-eyed, smacked my arm, scolded me, hugged me then kissed me.

Sunday, my parents' anniversary, was fairly laid back; compared to the big party last year, just the six of us seemed so personal and lovely. I caught B and Kate smoking my mother's Sobranies together in the back garden after supper. I was pleased they were getting along, though they laughed at my stern expression. B wore her new dress.

And then Monday, today, after breakfast (and after extended goodbyes with our parents) B and I took Kate and Peter to the station in Peterborough in order to catch the train to Edinburgh. Our own goodbyes with them were bittersweet; there were promises to keep in better touch, and open invitations to come and stay with them in Hong Kong. (Their outbound flight back to Hong Kong would be directly from Edinburgh.) We returned to have lunch with my parents then made the drive to London shortly after that.

When we went to her flat—which, incidentally, still has a gaping hole in the wall—she looked depressed upon her return from the loo.

"What is it?" I asked.

"This must stop," she said, "or I'll lose the only good thing to come out of a prison stay."

I had no idea what this was about.

"Another two pounds, Mark," she said, patting her hips. "The terrifying slide into obesity has begun."

I laughed. She did not. I pulled myself to my full height.

"Bridget," I said to her in the sternest, strictest tone possible, "this silly obsession with your weight has got to stop. You were not overweight before. You were too thin when you got back from Thailand." I crossed my arms in front of my chest to underline the point. "If you don't stop this nonsense, I will abscond with every scale you have access to—"

I stopped. Instead of looking chastened or contrite, she had a very strange expression on her face.

"What?" I asked impatiently.

"Have I ever told you," she said, striding up to me, "how thrillingly sexy you are when you're being authoritative?"

I only just got home a short while ago.

Mon, 30 Sept

Did not see when I got in yesterday that I had an answerphone message from Adam from over the weekend. He's coming back to The Smoke for a few weeks and wanted to know if a drink at the Savoy sounded appealing. He left his San Francisco number, which I rang up, but apparently he's already in transit, if his answerphone (answering machine?) message is to go by. Hope he'll ring up again once he arrives.

Fri, 3 Oct

B rang up at work today to let me know she was going out with Shaz and Jude tonight. It made me wonder: "Did you and Tom have a falling-out? He hasn't been around."

She chuckled. "No, he went to visit San Francisco shortly after the poetry reading, and hasn't come back yet."

Turns out the poetry reading featured Tom's ex-boyfriend Jerome (the man in the leather-look vest). She then explained to me, through her giggles, what the poetry was about. I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"The Lifeboat crowd were scandalised, I think," she said, "though your mum seemed more amused than anything."

She asked me did I want to come out, but I declined; she should have time with her friends too. As luck would have it, when I returned home, I found another answerphone message from Adam, this time with a London number. I rang back and we arranged to have supper and drinks.

When I arrived he was already there. He looked about the same, maybe trimmer, very cheerful and glad to see me, pleased with his work and satisfied with life in San Francisco. "London is a very open and accepting city," he said in confidence, "but there's _nothing_ quite like living in the Castro. But enough about me. You look so different than when I saw you before. Very changed. Very… happy."

I smiled. "I am," I said. "Bridget and I have gotten back together." Then, sheepishly, I added, "You were right, by the way." He brought his brows together. "About Rebecca."

"Ohhhh," he said, lacing his fingers together, then resting his chin on them. "I love a happy ending. Tell me what happened."

I explained everything to him, from the stinking fillet steak, to the barnyard animal birthday party, weekend in Gloucestershire; the comedy-of-errors slipped note and 'If' poem; Thailand and the death threats; middle-of-the-night naked terror (both figurative and literal) and confessions of love on the kitchen stairs.

"I am speechless," he said once the whole story was done (about the same time our meal was). "I _must_ meet this girl of yours."

I told him I'd ask B about tomorrow night, then broached the subject of his own life again—because it seemed he'd diverted attention away quickly, and some of the things I'd learned in those self-help books had stuck with me. I asked, "So what about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

"Not regularly," he said matter-of-factly. "A date here and there. But I've made some friends, so I'm not sitting at home alone every night."

"Your urban family," I said, more to myself than anything.

"Oh, that's it exactly," he said. "Very clever."

"I can't claim credit."

"Ah," said Adam. "Bridget again."

I really had to laugh at that. She has really crept into every corner of my life.


	17. Chapter 17: 5 Oct - 3 Dec

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 17: 5 Oct – 3 Dec **

Sun, 5 Oct

Yesterday I went round to her flat rather than call. She was just having coffee, late in the morning, apologetic for looking like a "mad banshee woman." (I laughed. She looked fine.) B was very pleased at the idea of having supper with a friend of mine. "So how come I haven't heard of this friend before?" she asked.

"We met in New York," I said. "When I was there for a couple of months. Before."

"Ah," she said; she understood. "Well, I'm glad."

"Glad for what?"

"To see you…" she paused. "Making friends."

I admit I bristled a bit—it's like I was gone to my first day in a new nursery school. She laughed and put her arms around me.

"You know what I mean, Mark," she said. "It always seemed Giles was the best friend you had, and if he's seeing Rebecca… well, we know how she is."

"I have other friends," I said, though it felt fraudulent; I hadn't been to squash, five-a-side or Barky Thompson's drinks parties in a very long time.

"Yes, well, they don't like me much, do they?"

I scolded, "I thought the same about your friends, if you recall."

She bit her lower lip; I expect she was trying to think of a retort, comparing Louise Barton-Foster to the likes of Shaz… but didn't. "I suppose," she said. "So why is he in London if he's from New York?"

"Oh, he's from London," I said. "He lives out in California now."

"How complicated," she said. "Well. I'm sure I'll like him." She seemed dubious, though.

I rang up Adam from my mobile to confirm dinner was on. I suggested Le Pont de la Tour, eight this evening; I thought it was about time to rechristen it as something else than the place I used to go and eat with a book by myself. (I don't even know where my copy of _The Famished Road_ is anymore. Hm.) He agreed. I then phoned for reservations—thank goodness eight was available.

B and I then did some shopping at Tesco Metro to restock on the necessities (the Pralines and Cream does not magically regenerate, after all), brought it home, made a light late lunch, then canoodled on the sofa for a bit.

(We were in the middle of this when she sat bolt upright in a panic about paying her mortgage. I told her she'd already done it—and didn't she remember? In actual fact, I'd nicked the statement and paid it myself. Ha. But I had to scold her for thinking about her bills in the middle of a good snog.)

Proving himself once again to be more punctual than even me, Adam was there when we arrived, enjoying a cocktail at the bar. He greeted B warmly—she looked surprised, to be honest, that he wasn't another Nigel—and within fifteen minutes flat they were acting like they'd known one another for years.

We had our starters, ordered wine, when Adam excused himself for the gents. B had a smile on her face as she sipped her wine.

"I take it you like him," I said.

"Oh, very much," she said. "It's too bad though, that Tom's got his customs guy. I'd've liked very much to set them up together."

"Hm," I said, then blinked in my surprise as I realised Adam had not mentioned anything about his inclination. What had made her think it? "Bridget, just because he lives in San Francisco—"

She laughed, probably at the surprise on my features. "Oh, I know that, Mark. But seriously. It's obvious."

"How exactly is it obvious?" I asked.

"Okay, maybe not obvious to most people," she amended. "But years of friendship with Tom… I've developed a radar of sorts, I guess." She smirked. "Am I wrong?"

I didn't say anything, which was enough to prove she was not wrong. When Adam returned, she mentioned that she had a friend in San Francisco, and did he by any chance know Tom? "Yes, actually—we met at a party," Adam said thoughtfully. "The expats tend to find each other at these things."

She shot me a smug look.

As we parted for the evening, it was B's turn for the loos. Adam said, nodding his head toward where she'd gone, "Well done, my friend. I think she's a keeper."

My smile was probably a bit smug.

She asked me, as we walked to the car, if I preferred we went to her place or to my own, and I said I didn't mind going to hers. (I'm glad she truly realises now that going to her place was not a way of keeping her out of my castle, as it were.)

"A very good night," she said to me as we climbed into her bed. "I'm glad you didn't spend all of your time in New York, working. I'm glad you made a friend and had a nice time there."

I hesitated in responding.

"Mark, what is it?"

"I wouldn't say I had a _nice_ time," I said quietly.

She gathered me up in her arms and kissed me. I was happy to forget how miserable I'd been most of the time.

Weds, 15 Oct

I admit I've been a little distracted (and sleeping well) and not as concerned about writing in here these days. It is more difficult now that the weather is turning cooler and B is staying over at my house more often (not that I would prefer writing over B staying over—but I think I would be mortified to have her discover this journal).

B has been insisting a lot more lately on contacting Daniel about the police incident. I have been putting her off, which I realised I couldn't do forever. This was proved tonight when she announced we were meeting Daniel after dinner. "Or I'll go alone if you don't want to," she said. As if I would want her to go alone.

Daniel turned up late, which was not surprising—he had always seemed to be late, anyway—but what _was_ surprising was the state in which he had turned up. He looked wrecked, like he hadn't slept, and if I was not mistaken, he was inebriated in a 'functional alcoholic' sort of way. I dearly hoped he had not driven his car.

When the server came to take his order, the look I gave to him suggested he would be better off getting a coffee.

"So. What's this all about then?" he asked, a slight slur to his voice. "You and him? Really? Thought that night was some sort of bizarre bathing charity." To me he said: "Planning on punching me again?"

After drawing in then releasing a breath, B spoke. "I—we—wanted to apologise. When I talked to the police after the bullet threat I never expected they'd consider you the main suspect."

He looked from B to me and back to B again.

"I never thought you capable of a death threat," she went on, "and I never told them I thought it was you. So I'm sorry they had you at the top of their list, I really am."

"I only reacted the way I did because I thought—" I stopped. I couldn't have thought it was Gary, because they'd already had him in custody. I then went on: "I acted out of instinct. I'm sorry."

His coffee arrived then; he thanked the server, then cradled the coffee in both hands. He shifted in his seat, stared into the cup for a few moments, then took a long sip. Not that he and I had ever been the best of friends, but in all of my acquaintance with him I had rarely seen him without a witty retort or at least some words in response. "Well," he said, before looking up at last. "I suppose I should be gracious enough to say I accept the apology. And I suppose I should outright say that I was sort of a bastard to both of you, though in distinctly different ways, and apologise in return." He brought the cup up, drained it, set it down and pushed it forward. "Thanks for the coffee." He stood, and I might have thought he was being an arse, except I saw the smile—his method of accepting our apology and offering one of his own was merely a defence mechanism kicked in.

"You didn't drive, did you?" I said suddenly.

"Taxi," he said. As he walked away, I swore I heard him mutter "Bloody old woman" under his breath.

She put her hand over mine where it rested on the table, which brought me back to reality, as she said, "I guess that went as well as could be expected."

We finished our own drinks then headed back for my house. I was a little lost in my thoughts—once again in disbelief that I had managed to find someone like B to love (and love me in return), and becoming a bit insecure, like she might wake up one morning to find she feels like she's been duped into loving someone I'm not.

"Mark, what is it?" she asked, touching my arm.

"Oh, nothing," I said.

She didn't let it drop. I will say this much—we are both working hard to keep communication alive.

"I was just thinking about what Daniel said," I said as I pulled out the key to open the front door of the house.

"The indirect apology?"

"No," I said. "Calling me a 'bloody old woman.'" I paused. "I feel a bit stodgy at times, Bridget. Especially compared to you."

She didn't respond. I turned to look at her, and her expression was soft, even emotional. Then she gave me a hug and whispered into my ear—well, that I wasn't stodgy; in fact, opposite of stodgy. Her words ('sex god') made me turn redder than a beet. Then we went off to the bedroom. I felt very reassured afterward.

Fri, 17 Oct

Broached the subject today of the massive hole in the wall. It worries me—I mean, she's hardly at ground level, and the hole in the wall isn't visible from the street, but someone with enough determination might break in and rob her or worse.

Anyway. I got the same answer I've been getting for a little over a month now: she'll have it fixed as soon as she's working again. But I'm sensing the resolve is weakening—I think she has the same fears that I have, plus it is starting to get pretty cool at night. I'm tempted to make an executive decision and hire a builder to fix it but I'm afraid she wouldn't take it well at all. The phrase 'bollocking' comes to mind.

Weds, 29 Oct

_15.30_

Made a marvellous discovery, or should I say 'rediscovery': this afternoon I was packing in preparation for a trip up to Cambridge (scanning back, I guess I have not mentioned the guest lecture I was invited to give) when I realised that there was an odd lump in the pocket of a jacket I intended on bringing but haven't worn in a while. I couldn't fathom what it could have been, so hurriedly I put my hand in it… and when I realised what was in there, I laughed to myself.

It was the necklace I'd purchased for B whilst in New York, the one I'd picked up on a lark for her birthday thinking someday I'd give it to her without seeming like a creepy ex.

Maybe I should wait and give it to her for Christmas. But no, it was a birthday gift, so she should have it now, even if it is seven months after the fact.

B's coming with me for the trip. She'll come over for supper—I dare not ask for details on what she's doing; I only know it's to do with trying to wrangle another interview in _The Independent_—then stay the night. I'll give it to her.

Sun, 2 Nov

Cambridge lecture a success. Necklace gift doubly so. Thursday morning I handed the box to her—the boxes are quite distinctive even if done up with silver ribbon, so the look she gave me was one of pure confusion.

"A belated birthday gift," I said.

The confusion did not clear.

"I was in New York on your birthday," I explained further.

"I barely marked the day," she said. "Plus we were split up." She was starting to look less confused and more emotional.

I nodded. "I thought I might be able to give it to you eventually without—"

She stopped me talking then with a kiss, which then led to other activities that made us late for our scheduled departure time. Even before opening the gift. It made me wonder (as I lazed in the afterglow) what might be in store for me after she actually saw what was in the box.

As it turned out, she loved it—I do believe tears of joy were involved, which I was very pleased to have evoked—and showed her appreciation adequately. Thank goodness the lecture wasn't until late afternoon.

We had to come back to London early on Sunday because B had an appointment with Jude and Shaz for bridesmaid dress fitting. I mused that I might come along, but that was roundly shut down. "You can't," she insisted. "It's bad luck." Given that she has registered complaints in the past about the dress, I guessed she just didn't want me to see her in it—which is silly, as I will be seeing her in it on the day of the wedding itself, in a little over a month's time.

I was going to ask her about coming to Barky Thompson's on Bonfire Night but she asked me first did I want to come 'round to Jude's—her flat had just gotten all fixed up for the wedding (more precisely, for Richard to move in, which he has already done), and it was something of a housewarming, too. "Rebecca will _not_ be there," she promised with a half-grin. "Richard thinks she's mental." I recalled what she'd said, his words about her being a deranged social engineer, and smiled in return.

She can smile about it now but I know it must have hurt a lot to have been betrayed by a friend like that. She probably thought it a bit much of me to take her in my arms and hug her tightly, but I felt a little extra reassurance couldn't ever hurt.

"I would love to go to Jude's with you," I murmured.

Sun, 9 Nov

Bonfire Night was great fun. We all had a bit more to drink than we should have had, and Richard (to whom I have warmed since I first met him at B's dinner party) had got hold of some firecrackers, so we went into the back garden to light them (well, Richard lit them). B cautioned earnestly about being careful, went on about some Guy Fawkes Bobbitt Boy (she was supposed to have done a story about him last year, or something—Richard and I laughed, and the murderous glare that laughter earned us from B made us laugh even harder); Jude made sure the garden hosepipe was on in case something caught fire. We gathered an enthusiastic audience of three children (and a parent) who stared in rapt fascination at the pop-crack-fizzing and bright flashes each time one went off.

No incidents of note—no burnt-off fingers (or other extremities) of any kind. We* were each still a bit squiffy as we took a minicab back to my house, which led to friskiness, then a rather extended evening.

(* = B and me—this did not turn into a Bacchanalian orgy / free-for-all.)

Still the light of my dreary old life.

Thurs, 13 Nov

Over the last few days there has been an increasing pressure from B about what I might want for my birthday, and as I don't really need anything or have anything in mind that I want, I told her I didn't know, but she won't let it go. It's becoming tiresome. I have all I want or need.

Fri, 14 Nov

Went to B's last night to find, hanging by the hole in the wall, a plastic-covered garment, the sort that you get with the dry-cleaning, except this was white and opaque… and huge. I pushed at the bag, and my finger just kept going; there seemed to be a lot of air in there. "What's this?"

Her reaction was to rush towards me as if she needed to disarm a bomb. "No!" she said, pulling me away. "You can't see this, I told you already. It's bad luck."

I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the bag contained her bridesmaid dress. "Bridget, the bad luck is supposed to happen if the groom sees the bride's gown," I said. "It's nothing to do with the bridesmaid's dress."

She gave me a stern look, which made me laugh.

"I think the bottom should come open easily…" I crouched down.

She reached up, took the bag and sprinted with it back to the bedroom. Chuckling, I followed. "Yes," I said as I watched her tuck it into the wardrobe. "I'd never think of looking there."

"You're not to see it," she repeated as she closed the door. She then turned to face me, arms crossed over her chest, looking adorable if infuriating.

And then I had an idea.

"I'll stop asking to see it on one condition."

"Anything," she said quickly. "Name it."

I smiled, feeling a triumph as if I were about to deliver a checkmate: "Stop asking me what I want for my bloody birthday."

She pulled her lips so tight they looked zippered. I laughed lightly then took her into my arms.

"Fine," she said at last. "I'll just have to think of something on my own." After a moment, she added in a tone that I took to be some kind of warning, "Maybe just I'll ring up your mum."

"Maybe I'll have a peek in the wardrobe while you're sleeping," I countered.

There was poking and playful punching, which turned to kissing and cuddling and finally agreeing on our détente. I wondered, though: "How bad can that dress possibly be?"

"Remember that bridesmaid dress I put on when I turned up as a bunny girl to the garden party?"

"Yes." (I remembered the bunny girl part of that day quite well, anyway.)

"With the giant flowers and the enormous shoulder pads?"

"Yes," I said, calling a vague memory of it to mind.

"That one is sedate and understated in comparison to mine."

"I'm sure you'll look ravishing." I was also sure she was exaggerating, but I didn't see any reason to belabour the point.

I'll just have to wait those few weeks to see what this dress looks like.

Sun, 23 Nov

I don't usually make a big fuss about my birthday but I have to say that this year was more than satisfactory. B was surprised that I went to work at all—I had to explain that deadlines wait for no man, not even on his birthday. We had agreed in advance that I would go to her flat where she would cook me dinner herself, but I did not expect she would turn up at my office with sandwiches, coffees, and a small bunch of flowers for my desk at lunchtime. I don't think she's ever come to chambers before—frankly, I think she found the idea of it a bit scary, like she'd be a lamb wandering into a den of wolves, but I've told her they're more like Giles than not. It was a pleasant surprise; speaking of Giles, he will be sorry to have missed seeing her.

She felt more comfortable after being there a bit and not actually being devoured whole, so after we ate I gave her a little tour. She seemed to feel free to poke at books and get Andrew's Newton's cradle to clacking away, much to my amusement, and his (as much as he tried to hide it).

When she left she admonished me not to lose myself in paperwork and try to be at the flat by six. I promised that I would be on time, and I was. I found the lights dimmed and the curtains closed with candles everywhere, even on the table. She greeted me with a big hug and kiss, looking beautiful and smelling divine.

We had ravioli with a butter and sage sauce that she'd found in a cookery book; she'd really done a great job with them. They were delicious. "The ravioli aren't hand made—they're from M and S," she confessed. I said I didn't care—the planning, the effort, the care that she'd taken… that was what mattered. I admit I had a fleeting thought of Rebecca—only in comparison, when she had tried so hard to take full credit for that obviously catered meal at my 'welcome home' party—then chastised myself for a.) having been so blind in the first place and b.) thinking of her and allowing her to darken my thoughts even briefly on such a terrific night. (I did ask out of sheer curiosity whether Rebecca really had asked her to come to my 'welcome home' party. She pursed her lips and asked me what I thought. I can't say I'm surprised. But I let the matter drop, effusively praising dinner again.)

It can't be a birthday without a cake, apparently, so after we'd done and polished off the wine she brought one out for me with candles and all. It was a lemon drizzle cake, and though it wasn't perfectly round and the icing was a bit uneven, it was excellent.

She then told me to go and sit on the sofa, then she went to get my present. It was in two parts. The first part was something of a silly joke: it was a pair of boxers with a bunny motif (heaven only knows where she found them) paired with a nighty for herself that matched thematically.

The other present was something she'd obviously pulled some strings to get, a book I'd been very keen to own but was rare or at least had been difficult to find. I admit that upon seeing the title I let out an uncharacteristic squeal of delight and turned the book over and over in my hands, babbling incessantly about how much I'd wanted it, wondering how had she known (had she asked my mother? Peter?). She clapped her hands in delight and reached to kiss me—I was myself delighted not only at the gift but the trouble she'd gone through to find it for me. I voiced concern about when I'd be able to read it—don't eat much in restaurants alone anymore, and have much better things to do in the evenings before going to sleep—and B said she would deign to allow me to read it in bed after those 'better things to do' if I chose to, without taking offence. I said that I would if I had the, er, energy (while mimicking DI Kirby's voice), which made us both laugh.

We then settled in and spent some time in the quiet and the candlelight before an offer to model the new nighty.

Outstanding evening.

I stayed the night there, then on Friday and Saturday night she stayed at my house (more pestering from me to get the hole fixed, more resistance from her, but not as much as before), so it's the first chance I've had to jot things down. I don't know why it'd be so horrible if she knew I kept a journal.

Sat, 29 Nov

One week until Jude's wedding.

Last night was the hen party. I believe it was just Jude, Shaz and B, which is not really much different than any other night out at the club, but they seemed to have a nice time. My mobile rang at about two in the morning, which was irksome but as I wasn't sleeping anyway, I picked up. It was B. I had always told her to call anytime if she needed. I pushed down the initial panicked feeling and said, "What's wrong?"

"There isn't a free minicab to be found. Will you come get us? Please, please, _pleeeease_?"

They were phoning from Greenwich. I didn't know how exactly they'd wound up there and I didn't want to ask. I dressed quickly and shot down there, got a giggling Shaz, Jude and B into the car. After taking the two of them to their respective flats, I decided B would just come home with me.

"We were very keen to get to the Prime Meridian," B volunteered in a very squiffy voice as I guided her into the house. "It was like riding the prow of the boat from that film that's oncoming. Riding into the day. We missed midnight but it was okay."

I humoured her, patted her head, got her into bed at about four in the morning. Expectedly we slept in a little late. I asked her what on earth what she meant the night before about the prow of the boat.

As she rubbed her temples in her hangover state, she looked at me like I had lost my mind.

As we ate a little late breakfast, she mentioned wanting to start exercising more. I was certain that this was completely unrelated to the wedding next weekend. (Sarcasm.) "I told you that you needn't worry about your weight," I said.

"It's not just about that," she said with slight defensiveness. "I should get more exercise in, and if we do something together that will make it more interesting."

Unbidden in my mind's eye flashed a mental image of what a chart of the number of shags per month would look like for me for the latter half of this year… as well as what B would refer to as 'shag flashbacks.'

"Well, why not come out for a jog?" I suggested abruptly. I reasoned I should get back to jogging, I would prefer we spent the time together, and I doubted very much she had any interest in playing squash or five-a-side.

She beamed a smile. "That sounds very nice."

The weather was not bad—cool but not cold, a little overcast but at least it wasn't raining like it had done on Friday. B had some yoga pants at the house and I lent her a sweatshirt that was a bit too large for her, and with that we were off.

I thought perhaps she might have a difficult time keeping stride with me (being that my legs are longer than hers). In actual fact, she didn't keep up because I made the mistake of directing our route down streets that had shop windows. When we passed by a café and she asked could we stop for a cappuccino, I had to put my foot down, figuratively speaking.

"Bridget, isn't stopping every few minutes or getting a coffee drink defeating the purpose of jogging?"

She pursed her lips as we rounded the corner. "What about a hot chocolate?" she asked. I looked at her again, to see she was looking up at me with big, pleading eyes. I stopped; she did too, rubbing her arms. "I'm freezing, Mark."

We went back for drinking chocolate. Not bad, she said, but not as good as the chocolate we had in Courcheval. I had to agree.

Mon, 1 Dec

Spent Sunday caring for B, who felt a little under the weather (no pun intended) after our jogging foray. She can't afford to have a cold for the wedding. She looked very cosy tucked up asleep in that enormous bed, if a bit bleary-eyed. Was quite pleased by my chicken soup efforts. She was pretty disappointed, though, because her mother and father were leaving for a month-long holiday in Kenya, and she had wanted to see them off to the airport. She had to settle for a goodbye phone call, mobile to mobile.

She seemed better by this morning and I went to work while went to lunch with her friend Magda. They might have been going to get their hair done too. Hope she has forsaken Paolo—the haircut back in February or thereabouts wasn't unattractive in the least, but I have since learned that she was traumatised by the experience.

Weds, 3 Dec

Can confirm that hair looks lovely. I think Magda talked her into highlights, too.

Supposed to be cool on Saturday. Hope the dress is sufficiently insulating.

We talked about Saturday (specifically, logistics). Jude had booked a room for her and Shaz (a wise choice, given her propensity towards tardiness), so I could go directly to the church for the ceremony at noon, and we could return to the reception together. They'd also be working on the final touches of Jude's speech on Friday night.

"Best not to drink too much, darling," I cautioned.


	18. Chapter 18: 7 Dec - 23 Dec, Epilogue

**The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister**

By S. Faith, © 2012  
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue  
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T  
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

At long last… sniff. Thanks for coming along for this ride.

* * *

**Chapter 18: 7 Dec – 23 Dec**

Sun, 7 Dec

Lovely day yesterday.

I arrived to church (through intermittent icy rain) with fifteen minutes to spare. The bridal party was not yet there. I was brought to a seat close to the front, on the aisle, on the bride's side, in one of the reserved pews for those close to the bridal party (dates, family, and so on) so I was in a good position to see the ceremony. It was freezing cold in the church. To pass the time, I made small talk with Jude's aunt, feeling a bit nervous that the top of the hour had come and gone and no bridal party had turned up. Richard and his groomsmen were exacerbating that feeling—standing up there, shifting their weight from one foot to another, fiddling with their nails. All sorts of worst-case scenarios began rolling through my mind, all of which seem ridiculous in retrospect.

When the organ started up I felt immediately better. I turned toward the back of the church and zeroed in B at once, and had to restrain myself from laughing. She looked gorgeous, but the dress looked a bit like she was in fancy dress as a ball of cotton wool.

Then they set off down the aisle, and I could not help noting, with bemusement, that attached to one of B's shoes was a light purple brassiere. She became aware of it partway through the procession, and tried to—well, I'm not sure what it was she tried to do, aside from a little dancing gait to distract attention from the garment hanging from her heel. (When she got to the front, she picked it up and tucked it behind the bouquet.)

The ceremony was typical and quite nice—made me reflect on by brother's wedding, my parents' recent landmark anniversary, and my own possible future—but things were slightly spoilt by the wailing baby and the two young boys who decided to hold an impromptu football match partway through. And there was a bit of excitement when Sharon succumbed to what I can only imagine was a wretched hangover and passed out, caught just in time by one of their mates, Simon, and keelhauled off to the vestry.

Just before the pronouncement of 'man and wife' B turned and caught my eye and I immediately understood—she needed me to get a boy off of her back, or rather, two. The boys with the football. I put down the prayer book, rose from the aisle, scooped one boy under each arm, and marched them outside. The door had just closed behind me when I heard a roar of applause.

I smiled to myself as I sternly told the boys, at some length, that kicking a football around was not the way to behave at a wedding. I think I put the fear of God into them, forgive the pun.

It seemed like forever until people started to file out, including Rebecca and Giles (whom I was surprised to see), as well as the mother of the two footballing terrors. "You really didn't need to take them out," she said to me scornfully as she took custody of them again.

"I think I did," I said, somewhat amused.

"But it's _wonderful_ having children just being themselves at a wedding. I mean that's what a wedding is all about, isn't it?"

I wondered if she might be putting me on. "I wouldn't know," I said. "Couldn't hear a bloody thing." It was then I spotted B nearby and pardoned myself so I could go to join her.

"Hi," she said meekly.

I bent and kissed her cheek. "You look beautiful," I said in all sincerity.

She snorted a laugh even as she blushed. "I feel like a giant cosmetic puff," she said, shivering a little. The rain had begun again, accompanied by a bursts of high winds. I took off my jacket and slipped it around her shoulders. She looked up to me with gratitude.

"Come, let's go to the car."

Once we got settled in for the drive back to Claridge's, I noticed that there was a huge hole in the front of her dress, in the copious layers of netting. "Bridget," I said, "you seem to be tormented by holes."

"What?" she asked. Then we both chuckled, undoubtedly thinking of her mother.

I asked, "What happened to the front of your dress?"

She explained that she'd gotten red nail varnish down the front, and the only thing they could think to do about it was to cut it out. "I was hoping it wouldn't be that obvious."

"No, I think the purple bra distracted attention well enough."

She groaned and leaned into the seat. I reached for her hand and kissed the back.

We arrived to find the hotel decked out beyond anything I've ever seen. Murmurs went up all round at the expense that must have been put in to the shindig. I heard figures quoted as high as half a million pounds. We came upon Jude's parents in the receiving line; her father, Sir Ralph, was shaking Shaz's hand vigorously, which made her look like she might fall over again.

"Ah, Sarah," said Sir Ralph. "Feeling better?"

"Sharon," Jude said, the smile not leaving her happy face.

"Oh, yes, thank you," said Shaz, bringing her hand to her throat in a manner that reminded me, strangely enough, of Una Alconbury. "It was just the heat…"

I tried not to laugh, and saw B do the same. "Are you sure it wasn't the tightness of your stays against the Chardonnay, Shaz?"

I was rewarded for my candour with a laugh and a single finger. I wasn't offended—on the contrary, I felt pleased to be reminded that B's friends had accepted me.

"Mark!"

I turned and saw Rebecca, who was beaming at me as if we were long-lost lovers reunited after years apart. She was accompanied by Giles—who, unfortunately, gave off the impression of being more like her pet than a boyfriend. I thought of Gloucestershire and of "fetch," poor fellow. "Oh, hi," I said. I was more pleased to see Giles. "Giles, old boy! Never thought I'd see you in a waistcoat!"

He bent to greet B with a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, Bridget," he said. "Lovely dress."

"Apart from the hole," said Rebecca coolly.

The comment got under B's skin, I could tell; she glanced away. Frankly, I wanted to kick Rebecca in the shin, but instead I spoke up with a great big smile that I knew would aggravate even more. "Oh, that's part of the design. It's a Yurdish fertility symbol."

"Excuse me," B said, then she got up on her toes and whispered close to my ear, "There's something wrong with Magda."

I watched her go off to where Magda and little Constance stood, then excused myself, or tried; Rebecca attempted to waylay me with conversation. Firmly I put her off then went for a glass of champagne to bring over to Magda in support. I overheard only the tail end of the conversation; seemed as if Jude had invited someone that Magda hadn't wanted to encounter.

"Hey, Constance," I said as I offered the champagne to Magda. "Did you enjoy the wedding?"

She looked up with huge, wondering eyes. "What?"

"The wedding? In the church?"

"The parpy?"

I chuckled. "Yes. The party in the church."

"Well, Mummy took me out," she said with a pout; I half-expected her to follow up the statement with a Bridgetesque "Durrr." Magda muttered a vulgarity as Constance added, "It was supposed to be a parpy."

B leaned in as she gave voice to my thoughts: "Can you take her away?"

I looked from B back to Constance and offered my hand. "Come on, Constance. Let's go find the football."

She took my hand and we wandered off. "I don't like to play with the football," she said in a very mature tone. "Harry likes to but he always hits me with it."

"He probably has poor aim," I said. "He is littler than you."

We never did find the football; our attention was caught by Jude announcing she was throwing the bouquet. Constance begged to be picked up so she could see, and we watched as the flowers cut an arc through the air, landed in B's hands, who glanced to Magda, then immediately tossed it at Shaz, who then pitched it to the ground.

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a butler suddenly who looked something out of Versailles as he banged away with a cherubic gavel. "Will you please be silent and upstanding as the wedding party makes its way to the top table."

I was still thinking about the bouquet, about B catching it and throwing it aside. Was she rejecting the idea of marriage? I hope not. The thought that she might be averse to the idea made me realise all of a sudden how much I wanted it.

It was unfortunate that the bridal party sat at the top table, because it meant that I couldn't sit with B. Jude had at least had the sense (and kindness) to put me almost as far from Rebecca as possible; as much as I would have liked sitting with Giles, it wasn't worth being in her proximity at all. Instead I sat with a group of Jude's colleagues from the bank and Simon, who I'd met before, and who I thought fancied Shaz a bit (especially given the church-fainting rescue).

Sir Ralph's speech to the assembled was long and excruciatingly dull, but no one dared say a word as he had certainly paid enough for the privilege of making it. I caught B's gaze on more than one occasion, looking like she might burst into laughter at any given moment. I admit that I tuned out most of the lengthy speech as did Simon. We chatted a bit—I hadn't realised he was an architect, but he clearly loved his work and was passionate about it. Caught him looking (and smiling) at Shaz, confirming my suspicions—he was looking to Shaz the same way I was to B… and she, to me.

There was a stack of telegrams that got read, too; they were all bone-standard and boring but for Tom's ("CONGRATULATIONS: MAY IT BE THE FIRST OF MANY.") Then Jude rose and made a speech of her own. I was minded to pay attention, as B had helped write it. It was a very good speech, one which did in fact have B's fingerprints all over, in praise of 'Singletondom,' which then reminded me of her pitching away the bouquet. (Hm.)

There was a toast to the bridesmaids. I beamed with pleasure and pride, and was very happy that she should catch my eye at the moment I felt most pleased and proud.

After the dining there was drinks and dancing. B went off to chat with Magda, and I lost track of her for a bit when the inevitable happened: Rebecca caught up with me.

"Mark," she said, sounding desperate. "I need to talk to you in private. Can we?"

For a moment I had a horrible, horrible feeling that she'd ended up pregnant somehow after our single, regrettable night. But then I realised that in her thinness she could never have hidden a five-month pregnancy. I didn't think there was any reason to not talk with her—she could get what she wanted to say off her chest and hopefully leave me alone. Maybe she wanted to apologise for her treatment of B, and of me.

"Sure."

We went off to the side near the entry where hardly anyone was. She turned dramatically, her long hair sliding over her shoulders; I had a moment of thinking how perfect and tailored her grey suit was, the shiny long hair… and how much I didn't feel attracted to her at all, and never had in that way.

"Mark," she said in a low tone. "I've wanted to talk to you ever since that awful day in Gloucestershire, and you never returned my calls."

"There was not much I wanted to say to you," I replied.

"But I have so much I want to say to _you_," she said, coming to life at last. She then reached forward and surprised me by clutching my lapel. "Don't you think… don't you think it's perfectly possible for two people who ought to be together, a perfect match in every way—in intellect, in physique, in education, in position—to be kept apart, through misunderstanding, through defensiveness, through pride, through…" She trailed off, then finished with a flair, "the _interference of others_, and end up with the wrong partners. Don't you?"

I knew what she was driving at; so much for an apology. I could also smell alcohol on her breath.

"Well, yes," I said. "Though I'm not quite sure about your list of—"

"Do you? Do you?" she interrupted.

"It so nearly happened with Bridget and me."

I thought that would be the end of it, but I was wrong.

"I know!" she said, a little too loudly. "I _know_. She's wrong for you, darling, as Giles is for me…" This surprised me, though not as much as it should have. She must have been delusional after everything I'd said to her on our last meeting. "Oh, Mark. I only went to Giles to make you realise what you feel for me. Perhaps it was wrong but… they're not our equals!"

"Um…" I said, thinking of poor Giles, who certainly did not deserve to be hurt, least of all by a woman to whom he was far superior.

"I know, I _know_," she went on almost maniacally. "I can sense how trapped you feel. But it's your life! You can't live it with someone who thinks Rimbaud was played by Sylvester Stallone; you need stimulus, you need—"

"Rebecca," I said, quietly interrupting. "I _need_ Bridget."

The sound she made was neither dignified nor restrained; her face flushed a dark red. She stared at me a moment more before stalking away. B had been wrong about her, I thought. She wasn't a jellyfisher. She was more like a moth, but instead of being drawn to flame, she was mindlessly drawn to success, status and wealth. Was it wrong of me to hope she got burnt soon?

I walked around looking for B, and before too long found her staring raptly at Magda and Jeremy, who were dancing, moving together fluidly. I slid my hand across her waist; I couldn't help remembering the Law Society Dinner, the corset objections, and thinking what a difference these months had made.

She turned to look up at me, a serene smile on her face. "Want to dance?" I murmured. She took my hand, turned into my arms and we began to move as smoothly as Magda and Jeremy did—or at least I hoped we did.

Rebecca didn't approach again; in fact, I think she might have left the reception. We shared a few rousing dances with Jude, Richard, Sharon and Simon, and generally had a very nice time. When the reception broke up, when it came time to leave, I put my arms around B and led her to the lift.

"What are you doing?" she asked. She clearly expected to be led out to the car.

"I thought you might like a little treat," I said, kissing her on the temple.

She looked up at me in shock. "You took a room?"

"No," I said. "I took a _suite_."

Her mouth fell open. "Are you mad? You live ten minutes away. And your house is nearly as posh."

I hugged her. I knew she wasn't ungrateful, just surprised. "I didn't want to wait that long," I said in a light tease / low voice, before I kissed her cheek. She looked duly chastened. "We can just get your things out of the other room."

We went up, and upon hearing giggling sounds coming out of the room she and Shaz had shared, B rapped on the door rather than use her key. The sound stopped.

"Who is it?" A man's voice. Simon's.

"It's Bridget. I need my things."

There was a great shuffle around and a lot of banging and noise, before the door opened wide enough to allow passage of the bag, a woman's arm sheathed in terrycloth. The voice to follow assured us it was Shaz. "I'll bring you anything you missed tomorrow."

"Here's the key," said B, putting said object in Shaz's hand.

We then went up to the suite, which garnered a response nearly equal to the one she'd had at Hintlesham Hall. For my teasing just a few minutes earlier I could hardly keep my hands off of her—I lifted the skirts only to find there was more and more fabric and netting beneath. When I finally got to the middle of it (like some bizarre matryoshka doll), I found to my surprise that she was wearing thermal underwear under the poof-ball dress. They too were pink, like the dress, and peeled off easily enough, though the fabric of that dress made things a little difficult, nearly insurmountable and definitely uncomfortable between us. She certainly enjoyed it, though, probably as much as I did. There was something thrilling about making love while she wore that elegant (albeit huge) dress.

We then went on to have just as much fun as we had in Hintlesham Hall, enjoying the bubbling spa bathtub, strawberries and cream, and champagne, finally curling up in those very soft linens.

Sunday, today, was equally enjoyable—traded the glamour of a posh Claridge's wedding for shopping at Tesco Metro. Roasted chicken, potatoes, brief discussion of upcoming holiday season: "Mark, it's barely December. We have _tons_ of time for Christmas plans."

I can see we have mixed philosophies on this.

I also broached the subject again about the hole in the flat wall. Reminded her that the bitter cold had not quite made it yet and the polythene would only keep so much out. Obstinate again: "I have a fireplace. I'll be fine." To prove the point she announced she was going back to the flat for the night. With the dress from hell in tow, I insisted on bringing her there. Couldn't myself stay the night because of the early morning tomorrow, but we had a nice snuggle on the sofa with the telly on before I left.

Mon, 8 Dec

Spoke with my mother today, who quipped that all must be well with B because she'd hardly heard a peep from me. I apologised for not keeping in better touch, but she said it was all right. "Besides, you'd be surprised how much gets back to me from Pam Jones."

I shall have to ask B about this.

Tues, 9 Dec

Interesting development. Very loud scene in chambers today (in the building, anyhow) with Rebecca, who has not shown her face around here for months, and who was alternately shouting at Giles and begging that they get back together.

When I went to see what all the fuss was about, Rebecca narrowed her eyes at me and accused me of betraying her confidence. "You told him!" she shrilled. "You _must_ have told him about trying to win you—!"

She stopped. I think she knew immediately that she'd said too much.

"Mark didn't tell me a thing—but it seems I was quite right in chucking you," Giles said; apparently he'd acquired a backbone at last. His voice was strong, clear, and calm.

I nodded in confirmation. She stormed off.

If it's the last time I ever see her, I won't be too broken up over it.

Thurs, 11 Dec

Had a little row with B over the telephone thing, but all is well now. Post-makeup, B asked if I'd noticed anything had changed about her. I had to think about it a while.

"You're not too thin anymore."

"No," she said, threatening to buffet me with a pillow. "Sadly, no." She then mimed smoking, then widened her eyes at me meaningfully.

"You've quit smoking," I said eagerly.

"Not quite," she said. "But I've cut way back."

I pulled her to me in a great hug. "That's marvellous," I said, then teased, "not as marvellous as quitting completely…"

That earned me pillow-buffeting, laughter from both of us the whole time.

Later, B asked me about holiday decorations, and was I putting them up at the house. I told her I didn't usually, but might put a small tree in the foyer. I had meant to last year, the first in my new house, but with all of the Julio-in-Portugal stuff…

"I've got a tree coming this Monday," she announced.

I don't think I'll bother with decorations, to be honest.

Sat, 13 Dec

Had an hysterical (in a happy way) phone call from B at work yesterday, something about a letter and work and could I please come over as soon I was done? I did, and discovered that B has had excellent news: the chief executive from the ultimate boss at her old job has offered her a position again—she'd be promoted to Assistant Producer, or could work as a freelancer—and that the intervening time since she left was to be considered paid leave. Oh, and that Richard Finch had been suspended in October for "personal difficulties."

"I _knew_ he was unhinged!" she declared excitedly. "_And_ I heard from bossy-pants Michael at _The Independent_ too. He wants me to do another celebrity interview!" She looked beyond smug. "Full moon luck!"

"Even though the other one—"

"Not a word, Mark Darcy," she said, putting her index finger over my lips. "Not. A. Word."

I thought it was cause for celebration, so we went out for supper. After we had gotten properly squiffy, I brought up fixing the hole again. "I mean, now that you're working again, and will have a great big lump sum payment to boot."

"Oh, fine, fine," she said. "I'll phone around tomorrow."

"Don't ask Magda," I said with a chuckle.

Mon, 15 Dec

Won't be able to see B most of the week due to work, trying to get things caught up before the holidays. Spoke to her on phone, asked how progress was going on ringing up for a builder for the hole. Seems a Christmas card came today from Gary. "I think he'll be out of prison soon," she said. "I think he deserves another chance. I'm going to wait for him. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

I am starting to think she's utterly mad.

Tues, 16 Dec

Since we were both in chambers working late, I asked Giles if he wanted to get some dinner with me. "Can't, mate," he said with a grin and a wink. "Veronica's waiting to meet me." Seems that after the row with Rebecca, he was emboldened in standing up for himself against her, so he rang up his ex-wife and refused to take no for an answer to see him for dinner. After the dinner she was so moved by his change in attitude she agreed to make a go of it again. They were dating once more.

"It's been great," he said. "Better than it ever was. Oh! You and Bridget should come have dinner with us."

I told him a provisional yes—but that I'd ask B. Sometime in the new year, I think… far too many commitments at present.

Weds, 17 Dec

Talking of commitments, I have been approached about taking major case. I'm quite keen to take it—exciting work on the Calabreras case. Unfortunately… it is in America. Los Angeles, to be precise. What about B?

_Later_

There's nothing to it. I'll just have to ask her to come with me. If she's working freelance, it shouldn't matter, should it?

Fri, 19 Dec

_07.30_

Went round to B's last night with a very strange card that was received yesterday by Nigel at work… one that B sent. The first time I read it, I was incredulous; the second, I laughed out loud. (We all did.) She must have been completely pissed when she wrote her cards on Monday night.

There was more evidence of said inebriation when I saw the tree upon my arrival at B's flat. Of course, I smelt the thing before I ever saw it—and it looked like it had been trimmed back by a maniac with a machete. "What's that strange smell?" I asked, then saw the tree. "What in the name of arse is that?"

"It was a bit…" she explained.

"A bit what?" I asked, amused and a bit amazed.

"Big," she said sheepishly.

"Big, eh? I see. Well, never mind that for now. Can I read something to you?"

Then, from my suit jacket pocket, I pulled out the card she'd sent to Nigel, which I then read aloud—commenting on Nigel's fitness and attractiveness when he's easily the largest man I know; declarations of feeling "very close to you now" despite only having him met once; "glistening bravely in the sunlight" and so forth—and concluded reading with uncontrolled laughter.

She sat heavily onto the sofa, looking utterly depressed.

"Now come on," I said to her with a smirk. "Everyone will know you were pissed. It's _funny_."

Dramatically, she said, "I'm going to have to go away. I'm going to have to leave the country."

I tucked the card away. "Well, actually, it's interesting you should say that." I then knelt before her, took her hands, and told her about the LA job for five months.

She looked devastated. "What?"

"Don't look so traumatised," I said, squeezing her hands. "I was going to ask you…" In that moment, on impulse, I very, very nearly came out with another question, but she blinked very quickly, and as she did, I lost my nerve, knew I could not go forward with it. If she said no, thinking of the bouquet toss and the praise of Singletondom, I might never have recovered. "Will you come with me?"

She had a sort of stupefied look on her face.

"Bridget?" I asked. "It's very warm and sunny there and they have swimming pools."

"Oh." She looked from side to side, as if concentrating very hard.

"I'll wash up," I added.

Still no response.

"You can smoke in the house."

This seemed to get her attention. She smiled at last. "Yes," she said. "I'd love to come."

Baby steps, I told myself as I leaned and kissed her. Five months in LA would demonstrate how well we could work as a married couple. And should the impulse strike again—well, Las Vegas wasn't that far away from LA. (Surely the smoking in the house was not the clincher.)

After that we had quite a lot of fun pruning the tree back until it was practically a bonsai, then made a holiday-related shopping list so that we could go shopping after I am off of work tonight.

_Later_

Shopping is put on hold. Shortly after writing entry, Nigel came to see me, to tell me the Calabreras case was on hold for another six months. "However, with all of your work this past autumn in Thailand… and your familiarity with the authorities and the system there… we've been engaged to assist another Englishwoman imprisoned in the Thai system, and think you'd be the best one for the job."

I was torn. It was just the sort of case that interested me greatly… but I suspected that B would be less than keen to return to a country where she had spent time in prison, and there was the matter of whether she'd be allowed back into the country after the delicate and potentially embarrassing political situation.

I rang up B as soon as I could to ask how she felt about it. There was a very long pause. "I…" she said. "I'm going to need time to think about this."

"I'll see you tonight?"

Another long pause. "How about tomorrow instead?" she said.

She didn't say it, but I knew what this was about: consultation with the Dating War Council.

Sun, 21 Dec

Telephone rang early Saturday afternoon with a very chastened-sounding B on the line.

"I've made a decision," she said. "About Thailand."

"Oh?" (So had I.)

"Mm-hmm," she said.

"Let's have it, then," I encouraged.

Another long pause. "Well, we—_I_—figured you wouldn't let anything bad happen to me," she said, her voice unexpectedly shaky. "So… yes. I'll go."

"Oh," I said. "Good. It's for two months, and I've already made tentative arrangements. We leave Sunday night."

"Sunday night?" she asked. "As in… tomorrow night?"

"You don't need much time to prepare, do you?" I asked. "You've got your passport handy, don't you?"

"Well, yes…" she said. "And we'll be there for Christmas?"

"Yes," I said, "but your parents are in Kenya, aren't they?"

"What about your mum and dad?"

"They'll be fine," I said, then asked, "Do you want me to come by and help?"

Silence, then, "Yes."

As we packed her things—laptop, clothes, swimsuit (it brightened her spirits a lot to remind her that it was not the rainy season in southeast Asia)—I made a revelatory discovery: I found her diary. I didn't read it, obviously, and I should have guessed that night so long ago (nearly a year ago) it had been a diary into which she had been making her notes. But still, a revelation all the same. It's quite possible we are more soul mates than I could have imagined (an idea I would once have laughed at)—and that she won't think me mad for keeping one myself. At least not _completely_ mad.

Actually, I should have said I didn't read the diary _intentionally_. I dropped it and when I picked it up my eyes skimmed over an entry made during prison. My heart sank.

I knew though that I had made the right decision.

We weren't in fact preparing to go to Thailand at all; I had actually turned the job down, because I could not in good conscience take a job in a place where she'd had such a traumatising experience and expect her to happily join me. I had to put her before work, and when I'd thought about it that way, there had been no other option but to refuse it. Instead, it's time for a holiday. And the surprise of our destinations will be revealed soon enough.

Tues, 23 Dec

_23.45_

On Sunday night we arrived to the international terminal with plenty of time to spare, though I can't say it wasn't a challenge to accomplish this. B was so distracted and tired she didn't notice what our boarding passes said. I didn't like thinking of the turmoil that the thought of returning to Thailand was causing her, but I also thought that the surprise, once revealed, would be well worth it.

"Bridget, dear!"

This, as we neared our gate; she spun to see my mother, then my father.

"Oh!" she said, giving my mother and father a quick hug. "You really didn't really need to come see us off."

My mother looked perplexed. "We're not here to see you off," she said, then looked at me. "We're going too."

"You're going to Thailand?" B asked, looking up to me, then back to my mother, their confusion evident.

Not content with just a confused expression, my father asked, "Mark, what in bloody blue blazes is going on?"

I slipped my arm about B's shoulders. "Surprise," I said quietly, then pointed her towards our departure gate, which showed in big letters the name of our true destination: Hong Kong.

"_Oh!_" she said, then turned back to me, pummelling my shoulders with closed fists before kissing and hugging me. "You bastard," she whispered, eyes misty with tears of joy. At least I hoped it was joy.

"I couldn't do it, Bridget," I said quietly. "As much as I'd've liked the job, the cost was too high. Then I remembered my parents had booked to see Peter and Kate and I got us on the same flight."

"And you let me think—"

I stopped her with another kiss, then said, "Hush. It's time to board." After a pause, I added, "First class."

"I suppose I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," she said as she wiped what I presumed to be lipstick from mine.

So now we're here in beautiful Hong Kong. It's just about midnight on Christmas Eve. B's taken the news of my diary very well, told her why I'd started and what I hoped to achieve. She's making notes in her own in bed beside me as I write this. I don't think I've ever seen her happier (he said, flattering himself). Wait until she sees our destination after Christmas.

Time to wrap up. There is writing about things… and then there is experiencing them.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Weds, 31 Dec

_Dear Mark's Journal,_

_Mark has thrown you over for someone else who intends on keeping him busy for a v. long time, and keep him sleeping well when not. He doesn't need you anymore, Just for Now Girl! Ha!_  
_Having v. lovely time in beautiful, beautiful, tropical Bali. You're here too, but shut up in room where you belong. Double ha!_  
_Now to celebrate New Years Eve in style._

_Ha ha,_  
_Bridget._  
_Ps. Don't worry, M. I didn't read anything xx_

Sat, 28 Feb

That little…

She promised not to open this. This, of course, means war.

Drafted reply:

_Dear Bridget's Diary,_  
_You should know that the little liar who owns you has been unfaithful with another journal_

Coffee's arrived. Saving warfare for another day. Love is much preferred.

_The end._


End file.
